


Careless Distractions

by TinyGhostWriter



Category: The Gifted (TV 2017)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-06
Updated: 2019-02-04
Packaged: 2019-07-25 23:46:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16208183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TinyGhostWriter/pseuds/TinyGhostWriter
Summary: The air around Lorna and Esme now seems charged, and the silence that follows their exchange stretches on for a protracted moment, saturated by a sort of incomprehensible tension. Esme regards Lorna, blue eyes glint with some nameless emotion, mouth curving into a tight-lipped smile. The weighted stare makes Lorna's pulse speed up, prompts her heart to skip a beat, and she can't quite define the sensation. Pregnancy hormones, Lorna rationalizes, because her mind doesn't feel ready to accept any other explanation.





	1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Hormones

* * *

 

Auroras are produced when the earth's magnetic field becomes sufficiently disturbed by the sun's solar wind, enough to change the trajectories of the charged particles residing within both the heated gusts and the magnetospheric plasma. Electrons and protons precipitate into the upper atmosphere, and through some sort of chemical reaction, prismatic light is emitted. Greens. Blues. Violets. Only visible along the polar regions, rays of various sizes and complexities illuminate the night sky.  
  
Lorna Dane recalls reading about auroras, back when she didn't have the power to control the electromagnetic energies that created them, before her latent mutant abilities manifested into an insurmountable force. The young woman's mind often staggers in the past, trying to make sense of the present, and hoping for a better future— but mostly clinging to the memory of the optimistic girl that she used to be. _Lorna Dane_. Once a carefree child with hopeful eyes and oblivious as to why her hair was an unholy shade of green.   
  
Now at the age of twenty-five, Lorna is pregnant, sitting on a fancy high barstool, leaning against a polished marble counter, and staring at a slice of toasted wholegrain bread. She toys with the butter knife in one hand, levitating it over her palm and spinning it around. The walls are painted ivory-white, the linoleum floors have been recently scrubbed cleaned, so therefore, the prominent smell of lavender wafts through the air. Such a large kitchen, full of modern furnishings, stainless steel appliances and extravagant centerpieces.  
  
Bowls of fresh fruits; juicy red apples, ripe spotless bananas, and bundles of plump grapes. Plates full of fluffy croissants, golden blueberry muffins, and homemade shortbread cookies. Belgium waffles. Chocolate-chip pancakes. Sugar-coated beignets. A wide platter lies at the center of the breakfast spread, brimming with crispy bacon stripes and expensive-looking sausages. What a lavishing display, over-the-top and excessive. Whether it be humans or mutants, rich people are always ridiculous and _wasteful_. There were _so_ many food items arranged across this counter surface, and yet— Lorna's mind just starts to wander elsewhere, her appetite stifled by troubling thoughts.  
  
Mutants. _Homo superior_. Gifted individuals with certain genetic traits that differentiated them from ordinary people. A single gene— one that was capable of granting these humans the ability to perform a wide range of magnificent, wondrous, and possibly dangerous, supernatural feats. Flight. Telepathy. Pyrokinesis. Clairvoyance. Precognition. _Electromagnetic manipulation_. Powers that should have been celebrated, revered as the next step in the evolution of mankind.   
  
Humans. _Homo sapiens_. Petty, narrow-minded, and cruel beings with an irrational fear of mutants. Instead of cherishing those among them who had been given exceptional abilities, they relentlessly tyrannized anyone— _everyone_ that was deem a danger to their society. Mandatory detainment camps. Clandestine gene-suppression experiments. Inhumane anti-mutant laws. The prejudice and the persecution never ended, it just steadily began to gain official endorsements, until eventually, all the major government agencies in the world were legally authorized to track down and forcefully imprison 'dangerous' mutants.   
  
_Dangerous_ served as a convenient umbrella term, one that actually referred to _all the mutants_. As expected, humanitarian protests ensured, which later turned into violent riots, and then finally culminated with a legitimate reason to arrest more mutants. A vicious cycle, propagated by the biased media and the regulated press. Isolated incidents of mutants committing aggressions against humans were exaggerated articles, _highly_ dramatized news bulletins, but their intended effect was achieved, and so now most of society had grown to despise mutants.  
  
Honoring the theory that to every action there exists an equal reaction, two coalitions of mutants emerged to challenge the humans. Those who wanted to accomplish a peaceful resolution, the _X-Men_ , led by Professor Charles Xavier, and another group with a more pragmatic perspective, the _Brotherhood_ , following the doctrine of an embittered man, Erik Lehnsherr. Through the years, the factions waged a moralistic battle against each other, cultivating polarizing philosophies, but in the end, both the X-Men and the Brotherhood vanished from the face of the earth, leaving behind their fellow mutant brethren to pick up the pieces of a broken promise, the notion that a better future could be possible for them.  
  
Then an irreversible tragedy occurred. On the fifteen of July, during a mutant rights protest at the city of Dallas, everything changed for the worse. It had been just another perfect summer day. Turquoise blue skies. The radiant sun shining down. There were no warning signs. It was as sudden as a flash of lightning, happened in the blink of an eye. The peaceful rally turned into a rough skirmish that ended up killing thousands of civilians as the result of a mutant's unstable powers. From that point forward, the general public started to view mutants as an imminent threat to their safety.  
  
Oppression. Fear. Hate. Those sentiments fermented amongst young mutants, Lorna Dane included. Believing in the whimsical assurances that X-Men provided to mutants had never brought her much fortune. Since Lorna was thirteen, she has been struggling with bipolar disorder, while simultaneously having to run away from law enforcement. Hunger, and cold, blending together, alongside so much _rage_ , Lorna remembers how humiliating it felt when she needed a fake identification card simply to purchase a loaf of bread. Shame, despair, and episodes of self-hatred, but Lorna _ran_.  
  
The Mutant Underground, what Lorna's former friends called themselves, the remnants of the X-Men, they were still holding onto the naive idea that humans and mutants would be able to coexist harmoniously. It was an honorable sentiment, one that Lorna thought she could have grown to believe in, but all the pain, and the hardships, the justifiable _anger_ , it refused to leave her heart. It gnawed at the girl's fragile mind, harvesting negative feelings, and pooling into dormant resentment.  
  
Lorna might have not fallen in love with the X-Men's romantic principles of pacifism, but she couldn't stop herself from being charmed by Marcos Diaz. Full of idealistic thoughts, he emanates a resplendent optimism, a certain _something_ that just can't be snuffed out. Lorna had been drawn to _this_ gleaming light, craving the warmth of his tender brown eyes, and the glint of mischief resting underneath a genuine smile that revealed who Marcos truly was as a person. _Incorruptible_. _Good_. She yearned for the raven-haired young man's affections, like a moth circling around the warmest flame, but now all that love felt smoldering, it clogged up the girl's lungs and dulled her senses.  
  
Love wasn't enough, and dreams alone couldn't feasibly sustain a person. No one adhering to the X-Men's belief would understand. Not the Mutant Underground, or any of Lorna's friends— not even Marcos, the father of the baby growing inside of her. Mutants must fight for their survival, they needed raw strength, more abundant resources. It wouldn't suffice to crawl through alleyways and hide within abandoned warehouses. Being meager, playing by terms that the humans had set, scrounging around in search of supplies— it just wasn't _enough_. So Lorna did what she knew best.   
  
Lorna _ran_. To the welcoming embrace of the Inner Circle. To their lavishing mansion, filled with large suites, state of the art security systems, and impenetrable picket fences. _The Inner Circle_. A group of powerful mutants who once held public identities as wealthy and influential members of society. Power. Wealth. Influence. Everything necessary in order to build a better world for a child. Lorna didn't regret her decision to become a member of such a competent organization. Or at least that is what she would continue to tell herself. Joining them had been an easy choice, but abandoning friends? Leaving behind Marcos? Becoming a traitor? Not so much.  
  
"Are you going to eat _that_?" A voice breaks through Lorna's inner brooding.  
  
Andy Strucker stares at Lorna, then using the fork in his hand, he points at her plate, gesturing toward the untouched slice of toast. Elbows casually resting against the edge of the counter, a wide dopey grin, large expressive eyes— barely a teenager, the boy had sided with Lorna, leaving his family behind and joining the Inner Circle. A handful of new recruits, but only Andy and Lorna were treated like senior members. Something about being _really special_. Lorna rolls her eyes. She is sure that possessing the power to _annihilate_ entire buildings and _pulverize_ concrete structures might have been a determining factor for their current elite status.  
  
"Here." Lorna slides the plate near Andy, "You can have it."  
  
"What? No, I—" Cheeks flaring red, Andy blushes, "I-I meant that _you_ should eat it, like I've noticed that you haven't really eaten anything." He shrugs, and hops off from the barstool, his feet stumbling on the floor, "A-And that can't be good for the baby, you know?"  
  
_The baby_. Lorna's hand drops automatically, palm pressing against the bloated abdominal section of her stomach. She smiles, although separated by the thin fabric of her silk blouse, the warmth radiating from the unborn child seeps through. How overwhelmingly sweet. Lorna's daughter has already mastered the art of bringing comfort. Marcos was _definitely_ the father. Only his offspring would be capable of performing such a feat.  
  
Lorna wants to be offended by Andy's assumption that she wasn't taking care of the baby, but the boy seems so sincere. He stands in front of her, wearing a timid grin, and stuffing both hands into the pockets of his grey cotton jacket. Andy isn't being condescending, or reproaching, he just feels concern for Lorna, and the baby. The apprehension glimmering along his hazel eyes didn't falter when she glances away from him and back down to her belly.  
  
The worst part is that Andy's reservations are not unfounded or baseless. Lorna's already fair complexion has grown even paler, dark shadows have developed along both of the young woman's eyes, and her lips appeared ghastly, cracking, shaded in an abnormal tone of blue. Making no effort to look presentable, she wore an oversized black shirt, accompanied by a pair of loose denim jeans. No eyeliner, chapstick, mascara, or skin foundation. Lorna didn't _seem_ healthy, and despite her vehement reassurances, Andy was worried.  
  
"I'm fine, Andy." Lorna claims, lifting back her head to grace him with a lopsided smile, "But thank you, for your concern."   
  
"Oh, well then—" Andy brings a hand up to the back of his neck, "Guess that I'll just be heading out. There's a training room, so..." He trails off, swaying on his feet, "I'm gonna do some target practice, or something. You know, to impress the leader of the Inner Circle. Can't have her thinking that I'm just a kid."   
  
_But you are just a kid_. The words are right on the tip of Lorna's tongue, begging to be said, but instead she concedes a wry laugh and says, "Alright, sounds good." Lorna nods, "I'll see you later."  
  
"Definitely." Andy grins sheepishly, "And please, _eat_ something!" The young man waves at Lorna as he departs, shuffling on his feet and walking toward the kitchen exit.  
  
"Bye, Andy." Lorna mutters softly, addressing Andy's retreating form as she watches him disappear through the doorway.  
  
Andy is young, so incredibly eager, and as a result, he feels an unyielding need to prove himself. Lorna wonders if the brown-haired boy regrets being here, far away from his family, stuck in the middle of an ongoing conflict, a war that started long before he was born. _Fifteen Agents Dead As They Attempted To Capture A Mutant Terrorist Group_. Media reports leave behind all the crucial details, where 'fifteen agents' means 'fifteen murderers' and 'attempted to capture a mutant terrorist group' actually refers to 'attempted to slaughter a bunch children and a handful of helpless adults'. Andy might be a teenager, but he already knows how much it hurts, to live by the mantra of kill or be killed.   
  
Another headline reads, _Senator Matthew Montez Has Been Assassinated_ , Lorna's own infamous crime. The article doesn't mention how the government funded agency known as Sentinel Services was using brainwashed mutants— legally _zombifying_ people— to hunt down other mutants. News outlets don't comment about Senator Montez's campaign against mutants, or his catchy slogan, 'Human Choices for a Human Future'. No, this society only documents that Lorna Dane caused the senator's plane to crash. He spirals into a blazing, fiery death, a demise that he brought onto himself, and she becomes the villain of the story.   
  
_To impress the leader of the Inner Circle_. Andy's statement rings through Lorna's head, and she thinks about the enigmatic figure. The leader of the Inner Circle, an intimidating mutant named Reeva Payge. A well-renowned businesswoman, she has been praised as intelligent, resourceful, and just plain ruthless. Every single trait that Lorna must emulate in order to keep her daughter safe, but then all these pesky emotions— love, sympathy, compassion, guilt, _remorse_ — regardless of how mercurial they can be, are still difficult to dispel.  
  
Those sentiments have always fueled Lorna's convictions, given her strength, but now they were becoming an albatross. _Apathy_. A state of indifference, the suppression of emotions such as concern, excitement, motivation, and passion. Such an existence may seem trifling and bleak, but it is crucial for the sake of survival, and if that meant turning off her feelings, then so be it. Lorna had only one single priority, her daughter, nobody else mattered, and she couldn't afford any more distractions because—  
  
_Tap_. A tiny object lands right next to Lorna's plate, bouncing as it skids across the counter. _Tap_. Another small, solid torus slams against the top of her hand. _Swoosh_. _Swoosh_. _Swoosh_. A couple of colorful blurs fly by Lorna's face, finally drawing her attention away from the woeful daydream that she has decided to become engrossed in. _Smack_. As Lorna turns to identify whatever entity is throwing pellets, one of those said pellets crashes into her forehead.  
  
"Whoops." A melodic voice snickers, and Lorna finds herself gazing upon a pair of sparkling sapphire eyes.  
  
One of the Frost sisters has commandeered the barstool that Andy had vacated when he left. A wrinkle-free, satin white blouse, a blue, form-fitting short skirt, and a pearl necklace around her neck. Esme. Sophie. Phoebe. Shoulder-length golden hair molded into pristine curls. An impossibly beautiful face. Three blondes— _identical triplets_ — with impressive telepathic abilities and a very Machiavellian theology. The unofficial chiefs of the Inner Circle's recruitment department. Esme was the person who convinced Lorna to join the organization, a guide through her figurative descent through hell. If Lorna were to venture a guess, she would assume that Esme is the girl sitting in front of her, tossing pieces of— _Cheerios_?  
  
"What the hell are you _doing_?" Lorna scoffs, rubbing the spot where the cereal particle had struck her forehead.  
  
"Trying to cheer you up." The blue-eyed girl replies, as if her actions had an obvious purpose.  
  
"By throwing Cheerios at me?" Lorna frowns.  
  
"Yeah, _Cheerios_ , get it?" The blonde smiles, chin resting against the heel of a palm, her other hand pointing at the cereal bowl that she had procured, " _Cheering_ you up?"   
  
While Lorna stares on, speechless and bewildered, the unidentified Frost sibling seems pleased with herself. "I can't even—" The green-haired girl groans, and shakes her head, not knowing how to respond. Lorna decides to simply rolls her eyes, torn between the urge to remain stoic or admitting that the stupid joke had been somewhat funny— and _which_ sister is she even speaking to?  
  
"So which one are you, again?" Lorna is as subtle and discreet as a semi-assault rifle that has been modified to expel a continuous series of rapid fireshots, "Blossom, Bubbles, or Buttercup?"  
  
A playful pout appears on the blonde's face, "Aw, I'm _hurt_." She feigns indignation by pressing a hand against the top of her chest, "You really can't recognize me?"  
  
"You're all identical triplets."  
  
"But we're _individuals_."  
  
"With literally the same personality."  
  
"With _distinct_ facial expressions and _unique_ mannerisms."  
  
"You all talk at the same time, like the _Children of the Corn_."  
  
"Well, how about you just take an educated guess then?" A glint of mischief flickers across those two cerulean eyes.  
  
"Fine." Lorna sighs, "Esme?"  
  
"You got it!" The young woman's— _Esme's_ face lights up, and instead of her trademark smirk, she offers a genuine-looking smile, "You must be starting to differentiate between us."  
  
"Don't flatter yourself." Lorna grunts as she crosses her arms, "Esme is just the only name I know."   
  
A complete lie. Esme Frost, a flawlessly pretty girl, barging into Lorna's life, full of memorable achievements, such as: Infiltrating the Mutant Underground with a hidden agenda. Asking for help in order to save her two sisters— _Sophie_ , _Phoebe_ —from the experiments conducted by Sentinel Services at a top-secret facility. Planning terrorist attacks on bigoted U.S. senators. The peculiar way that the left corner of Esme's mouth twitches upward whenever Lorna makes insulting taunts— _Oh, look! It's the Taylor Swift clones_. —about the triplets while Sophie and Phoebe retained matching unimpressed grimaces. Esme has a lot of meaningful reasons why she is the first Frost triplet that comes to mind, but only Lorna would be bold enough to try lying to a clairvoyant being.  
  
So naturally, the left corner of Esme's mouth twitches upward, and although the telepath evidently knows that Lorna's comment is a blatant lie, she doesn't address it, "And be that as it _may_." Esme pushes the bowl of Cheerios toward of Lorna, "You really need to eat something."  
  
"And you _really_ need to stay out of my head." Lorna huffs, "I didn't ask for a bowl of Cheerios."  
  
"Yes, but they are your favorite cereal and I repeat—" Esme twirls a spoon in front of Lorna's face, "You _really_ need to eat something."  
  
As if on cue, a loud grumble erupts from Lorna's stomach, and she begrudgingly accepts the spoon, "And you just happen to have my brand of favorite cereal?"  
  
"Oh, _hell_ no. We have Frosted Flakes, Froot Loops, Corn Pops, but these—" Esme smirks, "I had to go to four grocery stores before I finally found them."  
  
"Cheerios are a pretty common brand, found at any small convenience store." Lorna quips, "It's not my fault that the Inner Circle is sponsored by Kellogg's—"  
  
"You can't find a box of _Fruity_ Cheerios at a small convenience store." Esme interjects, gracefully slipping off from the barstool, "Perhaps if you preferred Honey Nut Cheerios like a regular person, then—"  
  
"I wouldn't be here if I were a _regular_ person." Lorna retorts, grinning smugly as she wins the discussion with that clever remark, before scooping up a spoonful of prismatic cereal bits and stuffing them into her mouth.  
  
Thoroughly entertained by Lorna's incessant need to say the last word, Esme lets out a genuine laugh. It sounds musical, so soft, and it triggers a tingling sensation inside the pits of Lorna's stomach. The baby must be kicking, those were definitely not fluttering _emotions_. She refuses to admit that the prospect of forming a tentative friendship with Esme was enticing. Of course, Lorna is really _bad_ at lying, even to herself.  
  
"Well, I'll leave you to it then." Esme announces, and she is already a few feet away from the kitchen counter when her voice parting words pierce through Lorna's contemplative daze.  
  
"W-Wait up." Lorna swerves to face Esme, hating the mild stutter that emerges from her voice, "Um, I just wanted to thank you." Esme stops, and spins back around. Lorna shifts against the cushioned seat, agitated by the telepath's questioning gaze, "You know, for the cereal."  
  
" _Oh_." Esme says, caught off guard by Lorna’s uncharacteristic display of gratitude, "You're welcome, Lorna." And Lorna's stomach does _not_ flutter stomach when Esme pronounces her name softly. The baby must be kicking. Again.  
  
The air around Lorna and Esme now seems charged, and the silence that follows their exchange stretches on for a protracted moment, saturated by a sort of incomprehensible tension. Esme regards Lorna, blue eyes glint with some nameless emotion, mouth curving into a tight-lipped smile. The weighted stare makes Lorna's pulse speed up, prompts her heart to skip a beat, and she can't quite define the sensation. Pregnancy hormones, Lorna rationalizes, because her mind doesn't feel ready to accept any other explanation.  
  
_Whizz_. An incandescent turquoise glow suddenly flits across Esme’s irises, indicating that either Sophie and Phoebe have sent her a telepathic message. _Whizz_. Another flash, and a scowl instantly replaces Esme's smile. _Whizz_. She seems frazzled, irritated by whatever her siblings are saying. _Whizz_.  _Whizz_. _Whizz_. Wordlessly waging an argument against the other Frost sisters, Esme acknowledges Lorna with a court nod, and pivots on her heels as she saunters out of the kitchen.  
  
Bemused by the entire situation, Lorna twists around and resumes eating from her bowl of vibrant, sugary treats. Amidst an enormous arrangement of gourmet breakfast foods, the sweet and simplistic taste of pulverized fruity oats manages to stimulate Lorna's fickle appetite. She listens as Esme's red-sole stilettos clink against the linoleum tiles. Each thump resonates across the empty corridors of the secluded manor until the sounds eventually die down.  
  
Although Lorna is alone with her somber thoughts once again, she feels much more relaxed. After playfully bickering with Esme, something has brightened up the entire room, a pleasant levity that didn't exist before. A nagging doubt lingers on the back of Lorna's mind, and she wonders how Esme succeeded in convincing her to eat an entire bowl of cereal when nothing else had even looked appetizing. _Pregnancy hormones_. Perhaps if Lorna kept whispering lies to herself, one of these days, she was bound to actually believe them.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Poetic Justice

* * *

 

A woman experiences several unpleasant symptoms during the early stages of a pregnancy. Morning sickness ravages the digestive system, waves of nausea circulate throughout the stomach. Breasts grow large and tender, becoming highly sensitive to touch. Then there might be an occasional episode of heartburn, constipation, diarrhea, cramping, and migraines. Needless to say, the entire ordeal is taxing on the body, and eventually, wears down the _mind_.

Depression. Anxiety. Moodiness. As if years of suffering from a bipolar disorder hasn't been enough, Lorna must now cope with the many psychological effects of her pregnancy. A whirlwind of nonsensical emotions and jumbled thoughts become clustered together, one by one, piling up on top of each other. There are days when the young woman feels so overwhelmed that all she wants to do is listen to loud music and never leave her bedroom— or rather, _this_ deluxe spacious suite, courtesy of the Inner Circle. 

Whereas the Mutant Underground had a ransacked mansion with barely enough space to house less than a hundred individuals, the Inner Circle has properties everywhere, ranging from luxurious, urban skyscrapers, to extravagant, countryside manors— _like the one that Lorna currently finds herself inhabiting_ —that are fully capable of accommodating over a thousand families. As remarkably generous hosts, the Inner Circle is willing to provide all the comforts that money can buy, just as long as its underlings remain loyal to the cause. 

Personalized to match Lorna's aesthetic preferences, the walls were painted in a shade of pastel jade, the furnishings are composed of dark, polished mahogany wood. An ostentatious king-sized bed rests at the center of the room, allocated between two identical nightstands. Emerald-green curtains drape along the sides of a wide window, a tall dresser is situated next to the nearby corner. A small portable audio system lies over a short bookshelf, its speakers booming out a rambunctious song played by an electric guitar. 

Gazing up at the intricately crafted chandelier hanging from the ceiling, Lorna lays on the bed, back against the mattress. Sparks glimmer across the decorative crystals, and with a wave of her hand, Lorna twirls around the dangling light fixture absentmindedly. She takes a deep breath, allowing the music to drown out all the noises reverberating through her head. It feels therapeutic for Lorna, to use faint electromagnetic pulses in order to move the suspended ornament, and to silence the commotion rummaging inside her mind.

Although the bedroom was tailored to Lorna's unique taste, from the simplistic decor of zero lampshades, down to the green— _the emitted visual aura of her magnetic energy_ —and black— _Lorna's preference in wardrobe_ —color scheme, she hadn't actually chosen any of these items. The Inner Circle utilizes the talents of its three telepathic sisters to tend to the needs of all the new recruits, disregarding how invasive and unethical the clairvoyant methods are. For the most part, no one opposes having their thoughts read, not when it means obtaining a high-processing computer or the latest video game console. The Frost triplets behave like silent, flawlessly dressed genies, granting wishes and fulfilling desires. 

As the chandelier spins, and the music roars, Lorna grows restless. Nearly three weeks after leaving the Mutant Underground, and the leader of the Inner Circle, Reeva Payge, still hasn't grace any of them with her presence. It shouldn't bother Lorna, except that it _really does_ , so then whenever she is unable to reign in her emotions, metal objects vibrate spontaneously, doors begin to break apart from the hinges, and the steel frames holding together the mansion begin to shake. 

Flicking a finger, Lorna magnetically turns the volume dial on her audio system. The grating screeches of the electric guitar pollute the air, a hissing drone that soothes Lorna's anxieties, if only for a little while. How much longer can she lie to herself before the severity of the situation sinks in? Lorna is _pregnant_ , Marcos _won't_ witness the birth the child, and above all, she _misses_ him. They were supposed to do this _together_ , like a normal young couple, buying generic baby clothes, arranging a crib, painting the walls of a nursery room, but now— everything has unravel around Lorna, an abysmal barrier exists between how things are and what she once wanted them to be.

The sudden sound of knocking disrupts Lorna's thoughts, four rhythmic taps bang against the steel-coated door. An uninvited guest, probably expecting to be entertained. She sighs, her eyelids briefly flutter close and then blink back open. Lorna doesn't want to socialize with anyone, and even talking to Andy would feel burdensome right now. If she ignores the pounding, then perhaps after a few minutes, whoever is looking for her will just go away.

"I know you're in there, Lorna." The unseen soft-speaking visitor— _presumably a mind-reading female_ —chirps from outside of Lorna's bedroom, "I'm a telepath, remember?"

Telepaths apparently don't understand the concept of _privacy_ , and Lorna admits that trying to hide from one does seem rather pointless. Based on the airy tone and the mellifluous manner in which the voice enunciates Lorna's name, she supposes that it must be Esme, the blonde standing by the bedroom door. Given how Sophie and Phoebe have been calling her 'Laura' for the last several weeks, Lorna feels relatively confident that her assumption is correct.

Releasing an audible sigh of exasperation, Lorna pushes up against the mattress with both hands and sits along the edge of the bed. Feet slamming on the floor, shoulders slouched forward, jaw clenched tightly, Lorna does an astounding job at looking utterly despondent. Waving a hand, she emanates green wisps from the tips of her fingers and unlatches the lock. Hinges squeaking faintly, the door swings open to reveal a pretty— _albeit three-of-a-kind_ —golden-haired girl.

This one is most definitely Esme, the crooked smirk, head tilted to the side, the gleam in her turquoise eyes, the way that the blonde gazes at Lorna with an odd, all-encompassing sort of fondness. As usual, Esme looked picture-perfect, not a golden curl out of place. Wearing a white-collar blouse under a dark blue crew-neck sweatshirt and a plaid pleated skirt, Esme holds a stack of magazines against her chest. Lorna would have been intrigued if she didn't feel so annoyed. 

"Hey there, D'artagnan." Lorna offers a teasing remark instead of a proper greeting, because there is something about Esme that _irks_ her in the wrong way, and she rather just conceal those feelings behind a veil of misguided attempts at humor, "Where are the other two musketeers?"  

" _D'artagnan_  was not actually one of the Three Musketeers." Esme saunters in through the door, accepting Lorna's off-kilter comment as permission to step inside the bedroom, "He was more like, their adopted son, or annoying little foster brother." She elaborates, "But I'm not here to discuss your lack of literary knowledge." 

"And what are you exactly here to discuss, _Esme_?" Lorna grins smugly, her mood shifting from morose to playful— the peculiar side-effect of Esme's presence.

A full-teeth smile blooms across Esme's face at the sound of her own name, and the mattress dips when she unceremoniously takes a seat next to Lorna, "Well, I sort of wanted to talk about—" Esme hesitates, her eyes avoid looking directly at the other girl, "This."

Esme lowers down the magazines, placing them on the empty space beside Lorna. The titles written across each cover pertain to a single subject, _Pregnancy & Newborn_, _The_ _Bump_ , _American Baby_ , stacked over a set of shopping catalogs. Lorna's heart begins to thump, threatening to beat right out of her chest. Every worry that has been haunting the young woman for the past three weeks resurfaces into the forefront of her thoughts. 

Sensing Lorna's inner turmoil, Esme decides to verbalize the matters that need to be addressed, "The baby is going to need _things_ , like clothes, blankets, and a crib—"

"I know what the baby _needs_." Lorna snaps, the air crackles with tension as viridian energy shimmers across her eyes, "I-I just didn't—" The words never make it out of Lorna's mouth, but she drops both hands down to her lap and glances away from Esme, unable to meet the blonde's perceptive gaze.

 _I just didn't think that I would be doing all of this alone_. The admission resonates through Lorna's mind, and she grinds her teeth. The rage boils inside, swirling as if it had a conscious of its own. Lorna's fingers dig into her knees, gripping so tightly that all the knuckles whiten. Fractals of green light manifest around Lorna, the visible sparks of her electromagnetism. She tries to calm down, but her heart is thumping too erratically. The whole bedroom begins to tremble, quaking waves pulsate through the walls with each of Lorna's cardiac palpations. 

"Lorna." Esme's voice beckons, "You are not alone."

The statement draws Lorna's attention. _You are not alone_. The exact reassurances that she needed to hear, but somehow, the sentiment now feels hollow. Anger seethes within the young woman, the fear of being manipulated beyond her control. Lorna's irises flicker violently, consumed by a iridescent shade of green. She turns her head toward Esme, and raises a hand up, agitating the subatomic particles floating along in the atmosphere.

"And you are _not_ allowed inside my head!" Lorna yells, then her fingers ball into a fist, and the bedroom door slams shut. Esme seems unaffected by the other young woman's sudden outburst, "Stop saying all these things— T-These damn lies that you know, you _know_ I want to hear, and—" She stammers, struggling to stay in control, but it is all too much for her, especially when Esme's passive expression doesn't waiver.

"Lorna, calm down—" Esme pleads, but Lorna cuts her off.

"And _why_ are you even here, asking me these questions, when you can just read my mind?" Lorna might be projecting the anger she feels toward Marcos— _toward herself_ — but right now, she is far much angrier at Esme for not caring about any of this, "Just read my mind. And then buy whatever it is that I'm imagining. Isn't that what you and your sisters do? Everything in this room, all the clothes inside my closet, these furniture pieces, that goddamn lamp on my nightstand? Isn't that what _you_ do? Invade a person's mind and fulfill their wishes?"

"Lorna, we are under strict orders." Esme divulges, "We must monitor the new recruits at all times, we have to—"

"Then _do_ it." Lorna spits. _We are_. _We must_. _We have_. She remembers that Esme has never been an individual. The golden-haired girl is just the third model in a series of apathetic robots, "Monitor me, read my thoughts, and give me whatever the hell it is you think I want. But _stop_ —" The floor quivers as Lorna shouts, "Just stop pretending that you care about me or my baby. Stop acting like you give a _damn_!"

A black, tight-fitted leather jacket thrown over Lorna's shoulders. A pair of blue-faded, denim pants hugging her thighs. The silver, stud-plated bracelets that are adorning the young woman's arms. From the high thread-count sheets on the bed, to the ceramic vase decorating the nightstand and the jade-colored crystals lining the chandelier. Everything was chosen for her, and she had grown tired of pretending that any of _this_  is acceptable.  

"Please, Lorna." Esme reaches out for Lorna, "I'm here because I knew that you'd want to choose this—" Her fingers coil around green-haired girl's wrist, "That you'd personally want to pick out all of the baby's things, and— Y-You can still do so." Esme insists, cradling Lorna's hand in both of her own, "Just calm down, please." 

How can Lorna calm down when none of this feels fair? Marcos won't be here, he will miss the birth of his daughter, and Lorna deems it easier to hold the Inner Circle accountable for these transgressions than to denounce herself. So she wants to continue screaming, to implode in a heated, self-righteous tirade of insults, but then, an unanticipated sentiment flashes across Esme's eyes— _hurt?_ —and her anger gradually begins to dissipate. Something about the blonde's apologetic, complacent demeanor appeals to Lorna's better nature.  

Drawing gentle circles across Lorna's hand, Esme's thumbs brush along the ridges between the taller girl's knuckles, administering these tender, feather-light touches that soothe the stiff joints. Breathing in, breathing out, Lorna flattens her fist, fingers loosening open, and she feels awfully embarrassed at her own behavior. _Deflection_ , _a common homemade remedy for mortification_. Lorna decides to blame the pregnancy hormones for the way that she overreacted.

"Sorry. I'm just—" Lorna sighs, "Well, hormonal, to say the least." 

"You're _allowed_ to be angry, Lorna." Esme says, in a manner that is both sympathetic and comforting, but without a patronizing or dismissive undertone, and certainly not at all what Lorna was expecting, "And you don't have to hide how upset you are—" A glint of playfulness reemerges from her eyes, "But you really need to stop causing 8.2 magnitude earthquakes every time you want to vent."

"Har-har." Despite the residual tension that remains, Lorna concedes a small laugh, and for a moment, her mind flashes back to the first time that she met Esme.

A scruffy-looking blonde, dressed in a plain, cotton sweatshirt and a red plaid skirt. She introduced herself as _just_ Esme, a regular, young mutant, trying to evade being captured by Sentinel Services and desperately seeking shelter. An old backpack hung over her shoulder, Esme sported thin, unkempt locks of hair, she barely wore any makeup, and dark circles could be found under her eyes. Lorna felt an instant connection with _that_ girl, the one who wanted to rescue her sisters from the inhumane government-sanctioned facility where they had been imprisoned.

 _This_ girl sitting before Lorna acts so differently. Esme. Sophie. Phoebe. The blue-eyed blonde comes in a matching set of three, a string of authentic pearls rests around her neck, she wears crisp-collar blouses alongside complementary tight-fitting skirts. A well-trained assassin. A highly-skilled driver. An efficient manipulator. The perfect operative. Layers upon layers, each version of Esme that Lorna encounters is nothing more than a jagged-edge fragment, and it becomes impossible to fathom if she has ever even been a whole person to begin with.

"I'll try to keep them below 5.0." Lorna quips, ducking her head sheepishly as she looks away from Esme, "But that's the best I can do."

"Deal." Esme smiles, giving Lorna's hand a hard squeeze before she lets her go, "You drive a hard bargain."   

"Well, I can't get any lower than that." Lorna teases, "I have a reputation to uphold."

"Oh, _do_ you now?" Esme quirks up an eyebrow, and she grins. 

"Well, that's why you _wanted_ me." Lorna smirks.

"Hm, I suppose that's true." Esme hums, with a peculiar lilt that sounds like she wants to say something more, but will refrain from doing so, "Now that we've sorted this out..." The blonde pats the empty space on the mattress between her and Lorna, "I'll give you some privacy. And when you're ready to pick something in the catalog then just—"

"Think about it loud enough for you guys to hear?" Lorna lifts a finger up, and taps her head.

"—Fold around the corner of the page." Esme corrects, shaking her head from side to side in amusement.

"Oh." Lorna mutters softly.

An awkward lull falls between the two girls, and for a few minutes, neither of them dares to speak. With a wistful sigh, Esme breaks the silence, "I can't speak for my sisters, but I promise to stay out of your head, Lorna." The sentiment at least sounds earnest and heartfelt, "And just so you know—" She pauses, looking Lorna straight in the eye, "I _do_ care."

The simple, three-syllable declaration hangs in the air. Performing one smooth, fluid motion, Esme stands up, slipping off from the mattress. She starts treading, her high-heeled shoes clatter against the textile floor, hips swaying with each and every step. There is such an indescribable elegance in the way that Esme saunters, or rather— _glides_ across the bedroom, and Lorna feels this sudden ache, like she doesn't want the blonde to go, but can't find the words capable of convincing her to stay.

Hand curling over the metal knob, Esme hesitates for a second, and then pushes the door ajar. She is afflicted by a brief, momentary reluctance to move, her left foot hovering near the threshold between the bedroom and the hallway. Right before walking out, Esme turns around, and while the contours of her blue irises don't glow, the blonde still gives the impression that she has been perceiving the inconsonant thoughts rustling within Lorna's mind. 

"I can stop by Andy's bedroom, and ask him if he would like to help you go through those." She points to the magazines, "Do you _want_ me to?"

"Y-Yeah." Lorna nods, and _lies_ , "Sure, I'd like that."

 _I want you to stay with me_. The truth doesn't make it pass Lorna's lips, because she isn't willing to process what any of those desires mean. _I want you to stay, Esme_. A well-articulated cognition being replayed incessantly, the confession echoes across Lorna's head, but instead of vocalizing it, she fakes a grin, then Esme gives back a smile and exits the bedroom without uttering another word. Lorna's heart clenches, and the tightness becomes too difficult to bear as she watches Esme disappear through the doorway.

The irony hangs over the bedroom like a daunting shadow, and perhaps it is truly poetic justice, that Lorna now has to suffer from the accidental repercussions of asking Esme to respect her privacy. _I want you to stay_. The thought repeats itself, an aggravating reminder of things that she shouldn't desire. Lorna doesn't really understand why she wanted to skim through maternity magazines with Esme, but the notion felt so befitting, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Lorna sits on the mattress, waiting for Andy to come, she longingly wishes that— just _once_ more —Esme would have read her mind.


	3. Chapter 3

__Chapter 3

Every Single Possibility

* * *

 

Night terrors can be vaguely defined as panic attacks that occur when a person is asleep. These unpleasant episodes, characterized by violent muscle jerkings and erratic joint spasms, are often accompanied with terrifying dreams. A problematic medical condition, the somnolent disorder produces lengthy, elaborate visions, capable of evoking fear, anxiety, or sadness. The dreamer may even strive vehemently to wake up, in an effort to avoid the perceived danger. 

For as long as Lorna can remember, she has been plagued by bouts of night terrors. After spending a significantly large portion of her youth institutionalized within a mental asylum— an inhumane facility designed to _torture_ underage mutants —the nocturnal ailment worsened severely, as was expected. Night terrors, the sleep-induced grievances of an overstressed mind. Countless demons torment Lorna now, she is both  _pregnant_ and a member of a notorious _terrorist organization_. Needless to say, the affliction seems in danger of becoming more than a mere nuisance.

Underneath a cover of perpetual darkness, soft groans echo across the bedroom. The curtains are completely closed, so not even an ounce of moonlight can slither inside. Ribbons of green energy spark through the air. The lampshades flicker on and off. The walls tremble as Lorna's faint whimpers rapidly escalate into mumbled phrases and choked sobs. Every strangled sound that spills out of the young woman's mouth induces a physical vibration. She writhes against the mattress, her hands clutching the cotton sheets.    
   
"M-Marcos..." Lorna mutters, "I have to do this— I-I have to..."   
   
The airport at Charlotte, Virginia. The Summit, a self-proclaimed enormous congregation of activists, overflowing with wealthy bigots and influential anti-mutant politicians. _Enemies_. Senator Matthew Montez. Sentinel Services. Sadistic scientists, conducting experimental procedures on mutants. _Friends_. Shouting and begging, asking Lorna to refrain from bringing the congressman's plane down, but she couldn't afford to be merciful. Not when her unborn daughter needed a safer world.   
   
"I have to do this, Marcos." Lorna argues in her sleep, growling at imaginary ghouls, "For our d-daughter, Marcos... I have to do this for her."   
   
It feels as if Lorna's head is being torn apart, the throbbing pain ebbs and flows. Engrossed within a profound state of unconsciousness, the nightmares rip through her mind. Marcos. John. Clarice. Haunted by the memories of the people that she has left behind— all in the pursuit of some brighter future. A sequence of horrific images, Lorna twists and squirms against the bed. It just _hurts_ , the pent-up guilt, the overflooding regrets, everything begins to manifest itself into feelings and emotions that threaten to split her at the seams.

 _Calm down, Lorna_. A phantasmal voice whispers into Lorna's ear. _You're just having a bad dream_. The words sound distant, and Lorna can't distinguish who the speaker might be. _Focus on my voice_.

Lorna grunts in response, unconscious and thrashing about, fully lost amidst a recollection from her adolescence. She remembers being constantly sedated, how both of her arms had been pinned down to a shabby cot. Lorna flinches, unable to bear the feeling coiling around her chest. The aggressive injections, the way that the sharp needles pricked into her skin. It is all too much, and as Lorna's hands slam against the mattress, the entire bedroom quakes, magnetic forces sweeping through the floor tiles.

 _Relax, Lorna_. A suffocating sensation enveloped Lorna's lungs, hindering her ability to breath.  _The past can't hurt you_.  _Not_   _here_.  _Not anymore_. The voice beckons, and in spite of the young woman's inner turmoil, she tries to heed the advice. _Forget about all of this, and rest_. Flailing around with a jolt, Lorna is gasping for air and clawing at the blankets. _Rest_ , _Lorna_. _Just_ _rest_.  
   
For a few minutes, Lorna doesn't feel any better, but after a while, all the shuddering and convulsions begin to subside. Although the voice continues to murmur into her ear, Lorna can no longer decipher the words being spoken. The unintelligible whispers are musical, weaving together to form a sort of soothing lullaby. It almost sounds like a hum, and Lorna's tired mind allows itself to be mesmerized by the melodic composition of reassuring phrases. Head tilting to the side, she burrows her face against the pillow, exhaling out a groggy sigh.   
   
Lorna's heaving pants start to recede, debilitating down to gentle breaths. The sinister nightmares dissipate, replaced by a peaceful _nothingness_ , coalescing into a profound sleep that alleviates Lorna's mental anguish. With the mattress drenched in sweat, her body stills and slackens as she curls beneath the bedsheets. Drifting off to a dreamless slumber, Lorna is finally able to rest. The voice doesn't stop, it steadily lingers, reluctant and firm, comforting Lorna until the morning arrives.

* * *

At the break of dawn, the punctual sun peers out from behind the eastern horizon. Yellow glimmering rays brush across the skies, dark tones of murky sapphire gradually morph to pale shades of turquoise, and wispy clouds become visible amidst a vast sea of distinctive blues. Even the brightest stars fade away, the moon and all of its celestial companions retreat into the farthest depths of space, but still, a tranquil silence dwindles on.

Faint fractals of light dribble through the window, invading Lorna's bedroom and casting a warm glow upon her face. She stirs awake, eyelids fluttering open. A groan rumbles against the back of the young woman's throat when she takes note of the time. Staring at the digital alarm clock that laid on the nightstand, the green block numbers flashing. _Six in the morning_. Stifling a yawn, Lorna burrows her head into the pillow, reluctant to face the day. She needs more sleep, it is way too early for anyone to function properly, the roosters haven't cawed, the birds aren't chirping—

"Lorna, wake up! I made double fudge chocolate-chip pancakes!"

But Andy Strucker  _made_ pancakes. And not just any kind, he has concocted the delicious, chocolatey ones that Lorna loves. It is probably some sort of plot to lure the older girl out of her room, and of course, it totally _works_. Lorna flips over the sheets, jumps off from the mattress, and stumbles onto the floor. Her bare feet wobble against the cold tiles, and with a few strides, she closes the seemingly long distance between the bed and the door.

Bearing a disheveled head of hair, Lorna doesn't bother to change out of her sleepwear, she can only just about handle walking. A short-sleeved, grey shirt and a thin pair of cotton shorts, Lorna's choice of casual apparel looks decent enough— and she really has no interest in a wardrobe adjustment, not when her intended destination is the kitchen. With a sluggish movement, Lorna reaches for the knob and pushes the door open.

"Did you hear me? Chocolate. Chip. Pancakes." Andy's voice sounds low, muffled by the space separating Lorna's bedroom from the dinning area, "Lorna!"

Refusing to reward Andy's relentless shouting with a reply, Lorna drags her feet through the long, unwinding corridor inadvertently performing an outstanding imitation of a zombie. As is common with any normal person— _everyone except for Andy_ —who has been rudely woken— _by Andy_ —at six in the morning, Lorna feels exhausted, her legs are heavy and nonresponsive after each step. The narrow, brightly lit hall appears to be never-ending, going on and on, until it finally culminates at the kitchen.

Paper wrappers, an empty milk carton, and a half-empty— _or half-full_ —dozen-egg carton rest beside the refrigerator. White shell fragments, flakes of flour, chocolate-chip morsels, litter across the linoleum floor. Heaps of dirtied skillets, a discarded whisk coated in pancake batter, used measuring cups and spoons, are all filling up the sink. Lorna smirks as she surveys this _colossal_ mess, wondering how Andy had managed get some bits of yellow yolk onto the kitchen ceiling.   
   
"Lor-na!" Andy yells from the dining room, drawling out each syllable of the girl's name, "If you don't get down here in ten seconds then I'll eat them all." He makes a half-hearted threat, "Ten. Nine. Eight..."   
   
It becomes difficult to adhere to a whimsical time-limit while navigating across the remnants of Andy's cooking endeavors. Condiments splattered along the counter, brown powder blots of cinnamon and nutmeg staining the marble surface. A towering stack of bowls, one piled up against another, right next to the stove. The pungent smell of smoke and _burnt_ dough indicates that several attempts at making pancakes were unsuccessful.   
   
"Seven. Six. Five. Four—"   
   
Lorna sighs, feeling sympathy for whomever the Inner Circle has to hire in order to remove the dried-up batter from the stove's burner covers. She cautiously strolls through the trail of sullied tableware that Andy had left behind, careful not to slip on a banana peel— And how often did making double fudge chocolate-chip pancakes require a _banana_? Probably never, but there it is now, laying dangerously close to Lorna's right foot. She swerves to avoid an accident, and tumbles into the dining room.   
   
"Three. Two—"   
   
"Alright, alright. I'm here!" Lorna interrupts Andy's countdown, waving her hands up in defeat as she approaches the table.   
   
"Good morning, Lor—"   
   
" _Whoa!_ And what happened to you?" Lorna blurts out, as she takes in his appearance.   
   
The young woman's large, hazel eyes widen comically. She has been expecting to see _Andy_ , a normal fifteen-year-old boy, the brown-haired teenager who occasionally sulks, but mostly just enjoys playing video games, and wears different color variations of the same flannel shirt— Not some platinum-blonde vampire with a black leather jacket and a debonair crooked grin. _This Andy_ is sitting on a chair by the dinner table, an arm bent at the elbow, chin perch up against his palm. A tall mound of perfectly shaped chocolate pancakes lies in front of him, and he looks very amused.   
   
"Oh?" Andy lifts up one of his eyebrows— both which are thankfully _still_ dark brown —and pulls at the lapels of the glossy jacket, "You don't like my new look?"   
   
"You look like you're in a boy band." Lorna flops onto the chair right beside Andy.   
   
" _Really?_ Thanks!"    
   
"That wasn't a compliment..."   
   
"Eh." Andy shrugs dismissively, "Esme said you wouldn't like it." He smiles, using a pair of prongs to grab two pancakes, "She says that you don't like blondes."   
   
At the mere mention of Esme's name, a faint blush spreads across Lorna's cheeks. She feels her stomach flutter— _hunger pangs_ —and tries to act nonchalant, unperturbed by the revelation that Esme talks to Andy about her. So then Lorna must be upset— clearly _not flustered_ , because that would imply something far too unsettling, and she rather just keep her gaze focused on the stack of pancakes that Andy has been preparing.   
   
"I don't _not_ like blondes." Lorna mumbles— with the linguistic skills of a child.

"Well, Marcos had dark hair." Andy remarks, "It's okay to have a type."

"Well, Marcos is not the only person that I've ever liked." Lorna scoffs, desperately hoping to pivot Andy's curiosity away from the topic of her romantic inclinations, "And why the hell is Esme talking about _me_ with you?"

"Because it would have been boring for us to sit in complete silence while she gave me this haircut." Andy holds out the plate in front of Lorna, "We had to find a topic of common interest to discuss."   
   
"And _I'm_ a topic of common interest?" Lorna grouses. _And apparently Esme is an aspiring hair stylist_.  
   
"Yep." Andy nods, overpronouncing the 'p' for emphasis.  
   
Releasing an indignant huff, Lorna begrudgingly accepts the plate, grumbling under her breath as she pours an ungodly amount of chocolate syrup all over the pancakes. Andy smirks, offering Lorna a fork, and laughing when she snatches the utensil away from his hand. The boy's eyes shimmer with excitement, and it becomes obvious that he is eagerly waiting for Lorna to take a bite of his culinary masterpiece.    
   
Chipping off a slice of the chocolatey concoction, Lorna brings the chunk up to her mouth, and when she smiles, Andy exhales a sigh of relief. The kitchen might have been damaged beyond repair, but as self-appointed uncle of Lorna's baby, he has to make sure that both of them are well-nourished. Whipped cream, fudge sprinkles, and— _literally_ —a cherry on top, Although Andy's creation may appear to be a diabetes-inducing bomb, it is at least more nutritional than the three-inch granola bar that Lorna usually eats for breakfast.   
   
"You know." Lorna pauses between bites, fork held in midair, "You might look like the fan-favorite character from a teen novel series—" She concedes a smile, "But you sure know how to make a _damn_ good pancake."   
   
"Yeah?" Replying with a full-teeth grin, Andy leans closer to Lorna before whispering, "The secret is to add a dash of—"   
   
" _What the hell happened in the kitchen!?_ " Someone with a very high-pitch scream has discovered the unsalvageable wreckage of bowls and pans that litter the kitchen.   
   
"—cinnamon." Andy's smile doesn't falter in the face of the reprimands and the lectures that await him.   
   
Placing the fork on the half-empty plate, Lorna has the decency to feign remorse, "Just please try to sound sincere when you apologize." She mutters to Andy, "I have a headache, and the Frosts tend to sound extremely _shrill_ when they're angry."   
   
Barging through the doorway connecting the kitchen to the adjacent dining room, a Frost triplet saunters into view, her high-heeled shoes clanking against the floor. She stands a few feet away from where Andy and Lorna are sitting, haughtily crossing her arms. It is barely seven in the morning, but since members of the Inner Circle don't seem to grasp the concept of owning casual attire, the blonde looks like she has just stepped out of an important business meeting, wearing a white satin blouse and black pencil-skirt.

 _Whizz_. _Whizz_. Head snapping from Andy to Lorna, her cerulean irises glow bright— which means that she must be using telepathy to read their minds. "Andrew." The golden-haired girl snarls, turning to Andy with a glowering expression, "What if Reeva had been the one to walk into that war zone you created?"   
   
This one can't be Esme. Her eyes are colder, devoid of any fondness toward Andy and— _Andrew?_ Esme would never call him that. Even though the Frost siblings appear physically identical, Lorna has memorized all the subtle distinctions between them. The way that Esme's mouth purses with _disappointment_ — rather than anger —if someone upsets her, such an adorable, tight-lipped pout. The manner in which Esme's nose scrunches up whenever she feels annoyed or impatient, an endearing gesture. And perhaps it may be an absurd notion, but Lorna wholeheartedly believes that Esme is _much prettier_ than the other two girls.   
   
"Wait. Reeva is here? _Now_?" Andy exclaims.   
   
An unreadable emotion flits across the blonde's face, "She arrives tonight. And she will be expecting to formally meet you all at the party that we're throwing."    
   
"But—" He doesn't notice that Not-Esme is irrevocably frustrated with him, "Why would she even go into the kitchen? Doesn't she have servants and stuff?"   
   
"Servants and stuff? Do you mean _us_?" The blonde seethes, "Are you a child? Do people need to be constantly cleaning up after you?"   
   
"Calm down!" Lorna intervenes, and earns a pointed glare from a pair of blue eyes.   
   
"Calm down?" Her voice is as shrill as Lorna feared it would be, "I don't know how the Mutant Underground operates, but we take matters seriously here. He needs to grow up before I—"   
   
"Before you _what_?" Lorna challenges, green sparks circling her left hand.   
   
"You seriously want to start a fight with me? Aren't you tired of causing trouble for all of us?" An unprecedented choice of words, Lorna feels both angry and _confused_.   
   
_Whizz_. The blonde's pupils narrow in anger while the cyan irises surrounding them glimmer, and because of stubborn Lorna is, she refuses to back down. _Crackle_. The metallic parts of the table screech loudly as the green-haired girl curls her fingers into a fist, flakes of jade energy trickle out. _Whizz_. _Crackle_. The animosity unwinding between the two young women feels palpable.   
   
" _Enough_ , Phoebe!" Another Frost triplet emerges at the doorway, her own blue eyes shining, "All this yelling might disturb Esme, and you know that she didn't get much sleep last night."   
   
The Not-Esme that has been staring down at Lorna— _Phoebe_ , the really mean one — takes a few steps back. _Whizz_. _Whizz_. She communicates wordlessly with her sister, who due to process of elimination— _must_ be _Sophie_ , the slightly less mean one. _Whizz_. _Whizz_. Lorna absentmindedly watches as the two blondes exchange messages, but her thoughts linger on Esme— _Where is she?_    
   
Sophie's gaze shifts from Phoebe to Lorna, "Esme is—" Her blue eyes continue to flicker, "—otherwise preoccupied this morning." Sophie answers Lorna's unspoken question, indirectly admitting that she might _always_ be using her telepathic powers without obtaining consent.   
   
"Preoccupied doing what?" Andy chimes in, and Lorna notices how Phoebe suppresses a smirk.   
   
"Preoccupied with sleeping." Phoebe mumbles softly.   
   
"None of your business." Sophie raises her voice, loud enough to draw Andy's attention away from Phoebe, "Now come." She waves at him, "Let's clean up your mess before some of that disgusting, dried-up batter starts to attract insects."   
   
Obedient as ever, Andy reclines his chair and stands up. He seems always so eager to please, to prove himself worthy his lineage, the grandson of Andreas von Strucker, a formidable mutant and one of the founding fathers of the Inner Circle. Andy follows Sophie without further complaint, smiling at Lorna as he exits the dining room. There is a newfound confidence in his gait, a certain elegance to the way that he walks now— possibly a product of Esme's teachings —and Lorna can't help but admire this suave, _older_ Andy, so she grins back at him.   
   
As Andy and Sophie disappear into the kitchen, Phoebe loiters by the doorway. She looks at Lorna with somber apprehension, as if wanting to say something but not knowing which words to use. Lorna meets Phoebe's gaze, silently pleading for some sliver of clarification. _Aren't you tired of causing trouble for all of us?_ The wicked dreams from the night before, the fears, the doubts, all the confusing thoughts rattling around in Lorna's mind, and as Phoebe offers her a sneering frown, she _still_ fails to decipher what had prompted Esme's unforeseen case of insomnia.  
   
Phoebe clears her throat, nods at Lorna, and then she leaves the room, headed in a direction opposite to the kitchen. Alone amidst the silence, Lorna picks up the knife and fork, going through the motions, carving into what was left of the breakfast meal. Her stomach twists and churns, she sets down the utensils. The pancakes surely must have contained too much sugar— maybe even an excessive amount of chocolate syrup, or perhaps, the batter had not been cooked properly— either way, Lorna isn't hungry anymore, and she doesn't even know why.

* * *

It is an extravagant affair, to say the least. Tall, candelabra lamps have been placed along the borders of the walls, adjusted to a postion that lets them cast a gleaming, luminous glow across the spotless tile-covered floor. Elegant, gold-plated chandeliers hang from the ceiling, all of them covered in a resplendent spiderweb of twinkling lights that brighten up the ballroom. Small, wooden tables can be found scattered across the premises, each surrounded by a set of cushioned chairs. Waiters and waitresses navigate through the guests, carrying trays brimming with culinary delicacies and slim glasses of bubbly champagne.   
   
Outrageous and indulgent as ever, the Inner Circle has decided to host a formal party in order to welcome the new recruits. _All_   _Reeva's idea_. The clandestine organization owned many properties and real estates, from empty warehouses to luxury hotels, there were plenty of venues to spare. One of these secluded locations— in some isolated, _undisclosed_ part of the city —was selected, then a large dancehall received an excessive renovation, which mostly consisted of being decorated with artisan ceramic displays and overpriced pieces of furniture.   
   
The floral scent of lavender and lilacs infiltrates the air, the fragrances blend to create a sweet, soothing aroma. Soft, classical music plays in the background, a melody composed of strident violins and gentle flutes. There are people amassing around the dancefloor, spruced up and overdressed, wearing lavishly embroidered gowns and stiff-shouldered velvet tuxedos. At the center of the multitude, Reeva Payge, a raven-haired woman with dark sun-kissed skin, and a charming, diplomat's smile. She floats across the room, shaking everyone's hand, exchanging idle pleasantries, and apparently— _boosting_ the team's morale.   
   
Leaning against an ornamental granite column near the entrance of the ballroom, Lorna stands at the edge of the crowd, both arms folded on her chest. Social nonconformist by nature, she chose not wear a dress, preferring the comfort that only a loose-fitting blouse and an elegant pantsuit can bring. Lorna couldn't discern how to best arrange her hair, so she just allowed it to dangle freely. The wavy, emerald curls have grown past the young woman's shoulders, but she has yet to preoccupy herself with trimming the unruly tips. Lorna isn't too worried about her appearance, especially when she feels awfully exhausted most of the time.   
   
From afar, Lorna observes how Reeva mingles, talking to all the guests, full of fake smiles and forced laughs. She spots Esme, hovering around Reeva like a schoolgirl with a crush. _A vision in blue silk_. The blonde's dress fits tightly against each curve, short golden locks molded into ringlets falling above her shoulders. Lorna scowls, evidently not amused by the effortless way that Esme's hand comes to rest on top of Reeva's shoulder. A sickening sensation creeps through Lorna's chest, and her head turns away, plucking a glass of apple cider off a waiter's tray as she retreats to the outside terrace.   
   
Six months pregnant, Lorna is strictly prohibited from consuming alcohol, so she sips the virgin beverage, and hopes that the nasty sensation inside her stomach lessens. _Aren't you tired of causing trouble for all of us?_ Phoebe's words ring through Lorna's ears, and realizes that it is virtually impossible to tolerate this environment without being inebriated. Sighing to herself, Lorna stands in the middle of the courtyard, staring up at the stars. A gentle, cool breeze blows through the long tresses of emerald hair, and for Lorna, silence has never felt so lonely.   
   
"Would you like to try an appetizer, Miss?"   
   
This handsome, brown-haired waiter smiles at Lorna, mirth gleaming across his dark eyes. He holds up a tray, showing Lorna a large assortment of appetizers. Caviar-covered hard-boiled egg slices laid on top of thin shortbread biscuits. Rectangular slabs of red salmon topped with dollops of sour cream. A basket of wholegrain crackers alongside a bowl of Moroccan-spiced carrot hummus meant for dipping. A small platter full of curry-roasted pistachios. Brie bits sprinkled over baked black olives. All stylish culinary works of art, but Lorna would much rather eat a bag cheese puffs.   
   
"No, thank you." Lorna shakes her head, smiling politely, and notices how the young man's smile deflates.    
   
"Are you sure?" He is blatantly trying to prolong the interaction, but Lorna doesn't want to exchange vague flirtations— at least not with _him_ , "These baked olives are really good—"   
   
"She's not interested." A blithe, high-spirited voice interjects, "Now run along, _Alex_."   
   
Waltzing into the dimly lit terrace, Esme's sapphire eyes sparkling shinier than the stars adorning the night sky— quite literally. The waiter frowns, and glances downward, questioning whether or not there is a nametag attached to his shirt. Esme just waves at him dismissively, and he— _Alex_ —scampers off. Lorna bites back a laugh during the entire ordeal, and although Esme's abuse of clairvoyant power shouldn't be this entertaining, the green-haired girl can't conceal the way that her face brightens up when she sees the blonde.   
   
For a protracted moment, Esme's gaze rakes up along Lorna's body slowly, taking in the young woman's form-fitting black blazer, and the wild ringlets of emerald hair cascading across her back. Several light pink blotches darken Esme's cheeks, but she smirks to hide the blush, lips pressing together to form a wide, predatory grin, and there is some odd, unreadable emotion twinkling in her eyes. She reaches into her small hand-purse, and pulls out a chocolate bar.    
   
"Here." Esme tosses the candy treat at Lorna, and giggles shamelessly when the other girl struggles to catch it, "I thought your reflexes were quicker." She quips, her smile only growing larger.   
   
"Well, I caught it, didn't I?" Lorna mutters, readjusting her grip on the chocolate bar before examining the blue and white wrapping, "So you somehow just happen to have a Nestlé _Crunch_ bar?" She raises an eyebrow, "In your purse?"   
   
A Nestlé _Crunch_ bar, a thin tablet composed of milk chocolate and with crisped rice blended in. It was a highly popular candy treat during Lorna's childhood, available at any local convenience stores. Since then, it has always reminded her of a simpler time, back when the lines between mutants and humans didn't seem so concretely etched in stone.    
   
"Hey, cool it with the accusatory glare." Esme walks toward Lorna, "Andy told me that you love them—" Her voice resonates across the empty courtyard, "And it doesn't take a genius to figure out that you wouldn't want to eat any of those appetizers."   
   
"Oh. _Ouch_." Lorna exaggerates a scowl, pretending to be offended, "Those appetizers are too fancy for the likes of me?"   
   
"Too fancy? No. But most of these appetizers do contain some type of _vegetable_." Esme informs Lorna, taking another step closer, "And you tend to avoid eating green things." She brings a hand up, and runs her fingers through Lorna's green curls, "Which I find to be, very _ironic_."   
   
Esme caresses Lorna's hair for only a few seconds, simply to emphasize a point, and yet the gesture begins to unravel the taller girl's tranquil demeanor. Heart thumping loudly, pulse racing rapidly, but Lorna still remains composed on the outside— a pillar of stoicism, unwilling to reveal a single trace of discomfort —because truth be told, she can't quite define the feelings that Esme stirs inside of her. So it is better just to bury all those emotions deep within, to hide them behind a thick veil of sarcasm and humor.   
   
"Excuse you, but I _love_ vegetables." Lorna lies, while simultaneously ripping into the foil encasing the chocolate bar, "The baby just produces all these unhealthy cravings."   
   
"Oh, right. _Of course_." Esme rolls her eyes, "Blame your unborn daughter for the fact that you eat like a child."   
   
"I eat like an adult!" Lorna protests, as she snaps apart the chocolate tablet.   
   
"Name _five_ vegetables." Esme challenges, lips curling up into a lopsided smirk.   
   
"Sure." Lorna smirks as she begins reciting, "Carrots. Broccoli."   
   
"Good." Esme affirms, "That's two. Keep going."   
   
"Tomatoes?" The green-haired girl doesn't seem to show much conviction in this particular answer.   
   
"Tomatoes are fruits—" Esme corrects, "But I'll count it."   
   
"So that's three..." Lorna trails off, plopping a piece chocolate into her mouth, "Um. That leafy, green ball."   
   
"Also known as _lettuce_."   
   
"Yeah, lettuce." Lorna rewards herself by eating another slab of the candy bar.   
   
"You're still missing one."   
   
"Uh— There's that... Um. Whitish, like— Ghost broccoli?"   
   
"....Cauliflower?"   
   
"Yes! So there you have it. I named five vegetables." Lorna nods, "Sort of." She chuckles at herself, before offering Esme some chocolate, "Want half?"   
   
It should have been an ordinary, everyday affair, just two people, simply sharing some candy— But as tends to be the case with most matters involving Esme, nothing feels like it should. Lorna's heart pounds against her chest, in this weird, aching way that she has grown accustomed to when it comes to 'Esme-related' things. The blonde's eyes shift from the chocolate bar to Lorna's face, and there is an emotion swirling around those blue irises that seems impossible to discern.   
   
"Y-Yeah, sure." The stutter in Esme's voice seems strange, as does the way that she hesitates to grab the chocolate bar.   
   
Lorna smiles, walking toward a nearby bench, and Esme dutifully follows. The young women take a seat on the concrete bank, awkwardly lowering themselves down against its rough surface. Streaks of moonlight gently graze the clusters of flowers encasing the terrace. Such an eerie, beautiful sight. Esme doesn't speak, her eyes staring at the garden, a hand toying with a slab of chocolate. _Wouldn't you rather go back inside to Reeva's party?_ The statement almost spills out from Lorna's mouth before her brain has a chance intervene, and maybe _jealousy_ plays an important factor— but she is not willing to admit this. Esme looks at Lorna briefly, flashing a shy grin, then turns away. _Damn_ ,  _I really do like blondes_. And Lorna is not willing to admit that either.  
   
"Thank you, by the way." Lorna whispers, as if she doesn't want to disturb the sanctity of the moment, "For the chocolate."   
   
"No problem, Lorna." Esme replies, in this soft, wistful manner that tugs at Lorna's heartstrings.   
   
Muffled noises can be heard echoing at a distance, rambunctious music and insipid chatter, a spacious ballroom brimming with glamor and refinement. It is an irrefutable fact, Esme belongs to this world, full of sparkling fine champagne, exquisite hors d'oeuvres, and charmingly insincere conversations. But regardless of all that, for some unfathomable reason, Esme chooses to stay out here— eating a piece of subpar candy and sitting right beside Lorna.  

A howling gust of cold wind whooshes through the courtyard, and a pleasing scent wafts into Lorna's nostrils, this rather sweet, floral fragrance, undoubtedly from Esme's expensive perfume. It serves as a vivid reminder of just how different both girls are, that a friendship— _or any type of meaningful_ _relationship_ —between them is unlikely to last, not with the ambiguity of the future lingering over the horizon. Lorna glimpses over Esme for moment, her eyes tracing every contour on the blonde's face. Even in an ill-lighted environment, Esme looks beautiful, all smooth cheekbones and alabaster skin.   
   
It becomes so quiet, and Lorna wishes that she could stretch this stillness to an indefinite amount of time, just her and Esme, cut off from the rest of the world. Lorna glances away, setting her gaze up to the night sky. The stars flicker, fluorescent silver asters pinned onto a black tapestry, and ironically, the ones that lie beyond the span of human comprehension shine the brightest. Lorna memorizes their intricate patterns, the glittery outlines of the constellations they form, and then she regards the immensity of the universe— of every single possibility, how each decision leads down another path. Lorna thinks that somewhere out there, exists a universe in which she and Esme don't have to worry about the future, at least not for a little while longer. 


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Fear

* * *

 

The skies are clear and blue, the sun shines directly down upon the cosmopolitan area of Washington, D.C. Near the border of an unfrequented street, a stylishly modernized facility lays hidden in plain sight. It displays a rather marvelous type of framework— an architectural wonder composed of solid concrete walls and bulletproof polycarbonate crystal sheets. Both tall and wide, the spacious complex of interconnected edifices has been designed with enough accommodations to house at least several hundred people.

Expanding across an enormous property, the establishment is erected in the middle of the city, like some giant, intricate monolith. The Inner Circle's main headquarters, an extravagant superstructure fabricated from weaving cement, steel, and glass of the best quality that money can afford. Contrary to all the previously sequestered mansions and isolated villas, this particular base of operations has been situated at the center of the metropolis, surrounded by huge skyscrapers and towering buildings.

Standing in front of a large, multi-glass panel, Andy Strucker marvels at the view of Washington D.C. from his new bedroom window. As usual, he is exceedingly astonished by all the resources and assets that the Inner Circle has at its disposal. Soft, satin duvet quilts thrown over a king-sized mattress. A sixty-inch high-definition flat-screen television mounted into the wall. Each and every single video game console known to mankind. A properly stocked miniature refrigerator, brimming with unhealthy beverages—  _carbonated, sugary, and full of taurine_  —the very kind that his parents would have never allowed him to consume on a daily basis.

Under the authoritarian rule of Reed and Caitlyn Strucker, two humans who simply couldn't comprehend what their son was going through, Andy had grown bitter and resentful. But here, living amongst fellow, like-minded mutants, he revels in this fresh, reinvigorating sense of freedom. His heart seems lighter, looser, liberated from the emotional shackles that used to oppress him so firmly. Now Andy feels capable of making his own decisions— to eat whichever type of food that he wants, to sleep until the late hours of the afternoon, and above all, to be true to himself. Andy no longer has to conceal his powers— and  _that_  fact —just feels more precious than anything else.

 _But is it more precious than family?_  Self-doubts and vexatious insecurities manage to infiltrate Andy's head.  _Lauren_. The memories seeps through, the haunting image of her face as she watched him walking away from their parents.  _The tears threatening to spill from her blue eyes_. He often avoids thinking about his sister. It is difficult to become truly committed to a cause when a part of his soul will always be entangled with Lauren.  _That sibling connection_. And then the way that their powers magnify one another's— the way that they, themselves, magnify one another— it feels hard to ignore, and nearly impossible to forget.

"Knock, knock." Double taps accompany the words, two strikes against Andy's bedroom door, "Hey."

Andy turns around to greet his guest— and Lorna waits for him with an amicable grin, a hand resting on top of her sizable, round belly. Approximately eight months pregnant, Lorna's hair dangles way past the shoulders, long emerald tresses that cascade down her back. She seems calmer lately, as if the impending responsibility of motherhood has somehow eased her mercurial temperament. Lorna smiles more, and she argues less, but her eyes still retain a certain  _flare_ , a small spark of defiance that can't be snuffed out.

"Hey." Andy responds, "How are you feeling?"

"Well, my ankles are swollen, and I need to use the bathroom like, every five minutes, but other than that..." Lorna shrugs, "I guess I'm fine."

 _I'm fine_. Translated from Lorna Dane's peculiar dialect, the phrase means that she feels incredibly  _awful_ — but she would rather die than admit the sentiment aloud. So instead of antagonizing Lorna's pride, or patronizing her in any way, Andy approaches the doorway, equipped with a smile, and an earnest desire to assist. He reaches for Lorna's arm, wordlessly guiding her toward the bed. Lorna doesn't resist, she allows him to lead, graciously lowering herself to sit against the edge of the mattress.

"That's good." Andy lets go of Lorna's arm, and flounces onto the space right next to her.

Taking care of Lorna is gradually becoming Andy's favorite pastime, a welcomed distraction amongst all of the chaos that goes on in his mind. Despite the teenager's many faults, he can be acutely perceptive when given the chance. For the last couple of months, Andy has been analyzing the older girl's reactions and gestures, correlating each facial expression to her various alternating emotions. Using a proportional mixture of sheer intuition and whimsical luck, Andy seems capable of reading Lorna's fleeting moods— thus far.

"Although— I  _have_  been craving a double cheeseburger with a side of French fries." Lorna adds as a seemingly insignificant afterthought.

"Do you want me to go get you one?" Andy offers, "I remember passing by a fast-food joint on our way over here."

"No need. Esme has already volunteered to go." The older girl tries to sound casual, her eyes darting away from Andy.

"Oh. Yes." Andy hums, his lips pressed tightly together, curving up into a smile, "Esme is  _always_  so eager to volunteer."

 _Of course, Esme has already volunteered to go_. Andy has come to realize an alarming fact— there simply isn't much that Esme wouldn't do for Lorna. It doesn't cease to amuse him, how neither girl notices the implications of this strange, _loverlike_ conduct. With unyielding diligence, Esme caters to the pregnant young woman's sudden food cravings, to  _all_  of her arbitrary desires, and adheres to them in such a devoted manner, as if she were Lorna's significant— well, Lorna's  _something_.

Andy isn't blind. He has seen the way that Esme gazes at Lorna, how the blonde's cerulean eyes shine with unbridled affection—  _with no relation to their usual telepathic glow_  —and she exhibits this, tender, wide smile—  _not an impish sneer_  —one that feels irrefutably sincere, free from its usual playful and flippant nature. Andy beholds all of these little idiosyncrasies, formulating his own conclusions, and observing in silence as Esme continues to act dotingly around Lorna.

It almost seems endearing, if it weren't so morosely pathetic. Esme's demeanor can be interpreted as docile, bordering on  _submissive_. She never deliberately angers Lorna, and the majority of their arguments end as quickly as they begin. Esme is patient, understanding, and at times, she teeters over the brink of being perceived as  _weak_. None of it makes much sense to Andy, and he worries for Esme, knowing full well that Reeve won't ever tolerate this sort of behavior. The Inner Circle demands uncompromising strength, it has no use for the trivial sentimentalities of a besotted young woman.

"How did she even know that you wanted a burger?" Andy quips, "Did she read your mind?"

"No, she did  _not_." The reply is as defensive and inimical as Andy had expected it to be, "I told her. We were talking— As she helped me get settle into my bedroom, and then—"

"She was helping you get settled into your bedroom? Wow." Andy interjects, "I couldn't even get her to point me in the general direction of mine."

"—And then I might have mentioned that I was craving a burger." Her jaw clenching, Lorna misconstrues Andy's gibes, "Wait. Do you think that she's  _plotting_  something?"

"By coddling and pampering you?" Andy laughs, "No, I think that—" He hesitates, because all joking aside, it isn't his place to reveal Esme's feelings, "I think she's just trying to be your friend."

If 'trying to be your friend' meant 'harboring a sad, one-sided crush on you' then Andy's statement could actually be true. Nevertheless, as far as he can determine, Esme's intentions are benign— albeit rather  _depressing_. No one enjoys bearing witness to unrequited love, and despite being aware of how much Lorna is enamored with Marcos, a tiny part of Andy wishes that Esme had a chance.

"Oh— Yeah? My friend?" For some imperceptible reason, Lorna is disappointed by the notion of Esme wanting to be her friend, "You think Esme  _just_  wants to be my friend?"

 _No_. "Yeah." Andy says, "But enough about that—" He turns to Lorna, wearing a mischievous grin and hoping to pivot away from the current topic of conversation, "Have you thought of a name for my future godchild yet?"

"Ugh. Oh no. Not this again." Lorna groans.

"I'll take that as a simple 'no'..." The teenage boy's face lights up, "How about Val?"

"As in Valerie?"

"What? No, as in  _Valkyrie_." Andy smirks, wiggling his eyebrows playfully.

Unable to resist Andy's infectious good humor, Lorna lets out an exasperated laugh, shaking her head from side to side. As  _self-proclaimed godfather_  to her unborn daughter, Andy has decided that the task of devising possible baby names is one of his most important responsibilities. The boy keeps presenting Lorna with godawful, tacky, Disney-inspired proposals, such as 'Bolt' and 'Elsa', so it doesn't seem likely that she will be taking any of his suggestions into consideration when christening her child.

"If you are going to bombard me with names, can they at least be  _normal_  names?" Lorna pleads.

"Oh, you mean like—" Andy takes a minute to think, "Jade?"

"Ugh." Lorna moans.

"Olivia?" Andy perseveres.

"No." Comes the impassive answer.

"Eden?"

"Still no."

"Holly?"

"Andy—"

"Ivy?"

"Please stop."

"Esmeralda?"

"Wh-What?" Lorna's catlike eyes flicker with an incomprehensible emotion, the tone of her voice loses its nonchalance.

The boy freezes for a second, grinning nervously at Lorna.  _Esmeralda_.  _Esme_ - _ralda_.  _Esme_. It was no coincidence, the evident similarities between both names. Andy had been shamelessly trying to rouse a reaction from the older girl— but now, when faced with one of her pertinent, fiery glares, he deeply regrets this decision.

"U-Uh— No r-reason." Andy stammers, "Esmeralda just means 'emerald' in Spanish." He chuckles nervously, "Which sort of goes with the whole—  _fifty shades of green_  — theme that I had going there."

Andy means well, and his silly antics tend to provide Lorna with a pleasant reprieve from the festering doubts that constantly rake across her mind. Dwelling on past decisions, she  _still_  permits these pesky, lingering concerns to overwhelm her. Then,  _occasionally_ , Lorna thinks about Marcos, wondering if he misses her as much as she misses him. And to further worsen matters, there are moments when Lorna's thoughts gravitate elsewhere, toward a  _certain_  enigmatic blonde— Esme Frost.

"O-Oh." Lorna tries to hold back a blush, but a crimson tint spreads along her pale cheeks, "Right." With a tongue click, she glances away.

It feels so infuriating, how this devious—  _and absurdly attractive_  —young woman makes Lorna question everything that she once knew about herself—  _wait, does she really think that Esme is absurdly attractive?_  Conniving and clever, each word that comes out Esme's mouth might just be a calculated trick. Lorna is not an idiot, she realizes that Esme's intentions are duplicitous— at best. The blonde's telepathy grants her the power to corrupt a person's mind— manipulating their thoughts and actions —a skill that she wields exclusively to serve Reeva's whims.

But then, there is another side to Esme, the  _seemingly_  compassionate girl who comforts Lorna, listens to all of her concerns, and always has a wise piece of advice to attest. How can Lorna differentiate the scheming psychopath from the empathetic companion? These are two halves of the same person. It makes Lorna's heart lurch, this inability to comprehend where Esme's allegiances truly lie.

And again, even though Lorna  _is not_  an idiot, when Esme looks at her with those large, mesmerizing eyes— with a gaze that seems clouded by authentic  _sincerity_  —she doesn't know what to believe. So now, Lorna will swallow all of these confusing feelings that she has for Esme, and plunge them deep into the farthest corners of her fickle heart. Listening to Andy recite 'awesome' baby names, Lorna smiles, blatantly aware that talking to the idealistic boy never fixes anything, but at least, he helps her forget.

* * *

Pregnant women and teenagers both share one fundamental characteristic— an  _insatiable_  appetite. Whether it is a quarter past midnight, and Lorna craves a carton of blueberry ice-cream, or even if it is three in the afternoon, and she frantically yearns for an order of  _Kung Pao_  chicken, none of these idle technicalities matter, because Andy will be there by her side. Either holding a spoon, or armed with a pair of chopsticks, he never hesitates to hop on a chair, and take a seat next to Lorna.

As the Inner Circle's unofficial caterer—  _Lorna's unofficial caterer_  —Esme procures whatever food items the expecting mother requests, and then loiters around in the kitchen, pretending to clean eating utensils—  _that haven't been used_  —or stays seated at the dining room, acting as if she needs to review some important documents—  _probably a stack of blank papers_. It seems painfully obvious to Andy that Esme is just looking for any excuse to spend time with Lorna. Between flashing shy smiles, and snatching chicken bits from Lorna's plate, she may not hide her feelings well, but the green-haired girl couldn't be less perceptive.

Half-empty cardboard boxes are scattered across the counter. A leftover cluster of stir-fried noodles, some pork-filled wontons, and a few egg rolls. Andy can't eat another bite. Amidst a pile of cracker crumbs lies a thin strip of white paper. _Lack of communication is the root cause behind most misunderstandings_. The words have been written in black ink, printed along the tiny note, foreboding and ominous. Andy decides to heed the wise message, because in all honesty, what were the chances of finding such an relevant and suitable piece of advice within a random fortune cookie? Esme is not going to take the initiative if Andy is lurking around like a chaperone, so it befalls on him to make the opening move.

"So, I'm sorta stuffed—" Andy announces, placing his chopsticks down on the plate, "If you need me, I'll be my room, taking a quick nap." He slides off from the stool, "Yeah, I'm gonna like, go now and give you guys some alone time— N-Not that you need time alone, I mean, what is _time?_  Right. So... Y-Yeah."

Laughing sheepishly, Andy continues to make a fool of himself. He gives Esme a respectful nod, and then graces Lorna with a warm smile— but the two young women are just staring at him blankly, the same bewildered expression is plastered across both of their faces. Slumping his shoulders, in the lackadaisical way that most teenagers do, Andy skulks out of the dining room, feeling nearly as uncomfortable as Esme and Lorna look.

In the wake of Andy's departure, the air is filled with a terse silence. A few seconds after he disappears from sight, Lorna finally speaks, "So, that was incredibly..."

"... _Awkward_." Esme chimes in, and although Andy would be proud to hear how the blonde is finishing Lorna's sentences— the wordless lull that stretches between the two girls still feels awfully discouraging.

Lorna presses a palm against her engorged abdomen, shifting off the stool. "Well, I'm just— I'm going to head out too."

Struggling to stand up, Lorna's ankles wobble, unable to properly sustain the young woman's increasing body weight. Driven by an irrational desire to flee from this awkwardness with Esme, she makes a clumsy misstep, and loses her footing. In an instant, Lorna starts to careen forward— but as she topples downward, an arm latches around her waist.

A hand places itself over Lorna's own, keeping her steady, "Are you alright?" Esme whispers, her warm breath brushing against the other girl's cheek.

Lorna straightens her posture, finding some substantial amount of balance before she looks up, "Y-Yeah, I'm okay."

"Are you sure? Do you want me to walk you to your room?" Esme squeezes Lorna's hand.

"T-Thanks—" When faced with Esme's fretful gaze, Lorna becomes flustered and tongue-tied, "But I-I have to go. I'm really tired."

Esme retracts her arm, but she remains standing extremely close to Lorna, assessing the taller girl's condition. Her sky-blue irises are soft, gleaming with something that resembles genuine _concern_. Separated by only a couple of inches, Lorna can smell the blonde's floral-scented perfume, an expensive fragrance that sedates her in a way that seems far too unnerving— _too dangerous_. Lorna moves back, because she refuses to fall for Esme's gestures of kindness, to feel— whatever it is that makes her stomach flutter.

 _Fear_. The emotion permeates through the air as Lorna stalks off, overpowering all of her senses. She is afraid of trusting Esme— of lowering her guard— _of getting hurt_. And it has always been fear, the only reason why Lorna pushes Esme away, the unpleasant belief that betrayal and disappointment will be imminent if she allows herself to care. This toxic sentiment creates a wedge between them, because nothing can counteract the trepidation that suppurates within Lorna's mind. So she must stay focused on what matters, and somehow convince her heart that Esme does not.

* * *

During the early hours of the morning, darkness engulfs every corner of the large facility, all the hallways and corridors— completely pitch-black. If motion is detected by the automatic sensors lining up the ceiling, then clusters of lamp fixtures are promptly activated. These fluorescent bulbs illuminate the ivory-white walls with an intense, blinding light, and in just a matter of seconds, the entire building goes from having once been too dark, to becoming too bright.

Letting out a loud yawn, Andy makes his way across the dormitories. After living under the same rooftop as Caitlyn Strucker— _a dutiful nurse who had to be at the hospital by five in the morning_ —the boy is used to waking up this early. But Andy feels exhausted today, so utterly consumed by fatigue. His feet drag along the floor with each step that he takes, shoes screeching against the linoleum surface. All of Andy's muscles are sore, his half-lidded eyes struggle to adjust to the sudden luminosity.

It has been a stressful couple of weeks, with Reeva forcing all the new recruits to train more vigorously. Days upon days, full of battle simulations, strategizing defensive maneuvers and implementing offensive tactics. _Be faster_. _Be stronger_. _Be better_. Reeva's voice echoes in Andy's head. _Again_. _Do it again_. The woman might be intimidating, edging on being absolutely terrifying, lips painted black and eyes burning with purpose, but Andy knows that her harsh methods work, these exercises are indeed making him faster, and stronger— _and better_.

Yet, there is no denying that Reeva Payge can be ruthless, a proud believer of machiavellian dogmata; the end justifies the means. According to substantiated rumors, Reeva has made some recent changes to the Inner Circle's upper management staff— 'changes' being a loose term, which mostly referred to the fact that she and the Frost triplets had performed a violent  _coup d'état_. This illegal overthrow consisted of murdering all the Inner Circle members who opposed Reeva's leadership. A brutal, but effective strategy. So Andy must thread carefully, abide to the woman's inflexible sovereignty, and avoid becoming a hindrance to her plans.

Arriving at the kitchen, all the lights are already turned on. As an involuntary reflex, Andy whiffs the air. The potent smell of coffee wafts through the compartment. Inhaling a deep breath, this strong, rich aroma seems to instantly revitalizes Andy, but he still feels so disoriented that it takes him a few seconds to notice the golden-haired young woman leaning against the counter— one of the Frost siblings, firmly clutching a ceramic mug. Even at the early hours of the morning, she is wearing fashionable business attire, which makes Andy, with his white large shirt and loose-fitting shorts, appear inexplicably underdressed in comparison.

"Good morning, Andy." The blonde offers Andy a strained smile, and he sees the sunken black spots under her eyes. This girl is obviously sleep-deprived, to the point where she looks more like a _zombie_ than an actual living person.

"Good morning—" _Phoebe? Sophie? Esme?_ Unable to venture a guess, Andy wraps a hand around the back of his neck, and grins bashfully, "Um..."

"Esme." She smirks, "Do you want some tea?" Esme tilts her toward the coffee machine, "Or are you allowed to drink coffee?"

 _It's just Esme, the less homicidal one_. Shoulders straightening out, brown eyes lighting up, Andy exhales a sigh of relief. He smiles broadly at the young woman. Only Esme would be willing to offer him tea, or coffee— _or_ _anything_ for that matter. Andy feels much more at ease now, since honestly, it is far too early to deal with Sophie's passive-aggressive comments, or Phoebe's aggressive-aggressive insults.

"I can go for some coffee." Andy chirps, "I'm pretty sure that I wasn't allowed to join mutant terrorist groups, and yet, here I am."

The joke earns Andy a soft laugh from Esme, and as she rummages through the top kitchen shelves for another mug, he gets a better look at the dark shadows beneath her eyes. Esme's movements are sluggish and slow, lacking her usual elegant flair of precision— she must _really_ be tired. Opening a cabinet door, rows of bright-colored cardboard boxes come into view.

Several types of cereal, granola bars, instant oatmeal packages, toaster pastries, Esme bypasses all of them, and grabs a spare mug. There is a porcelain jar resting at the back of the bottom shelf, the girl lowers it onto the counter. Andy hovers beside her, watching as she removes the container's lid. Esme's hand tremble, and when she scoops up some of crystallized powder, her fingers can't keep the spoon steady.

"Would you like some cereal?" Esme moves for the coffee pot, "We have a few brands." She pours the dark-brown concentrated decoction into the mug, "Perhaps a frosted strawberry _Poptart_?"

"Yeah, sure, I'll take a _Poptart_." Andy nods, and then he puts a hand on her shoulder, "But are you okay?"

"Of course." Esme lies, and Andy's hand drops to his side, "Why do you ask?"

"Because you just dumped three teaspoons of _salt_ in my coffee."

"O-Oh" Esme plasters another fake smile across her face, "Sorry. I'll fix it—"

"No, it's fine." Andy takes a sip.  _It isn't fine at all_. And then he discreetly spits it back into the mug. _Coffee shouldn't taste like seawater_. Andy reaches over the counter and helps himself to a toaster pastry, "I'll just take this _Poptart_ —" He waves the _Poptart_ around, as if trying to appease her, "But Esme, seriously. You look like, super tired. Did you get any sleep last night?"

Head slanted to the side, Esme bites her lower lip, unwilling to meet Andy's gaze directly. She moves away from him, her expression distorted by a contradicting blend of both apprehension and indignation. Although Esme is clearly afraid of showing weakness, she seems incapable of effectively hiding it. _Whizz_. Her blue eyes glow, and Andy becomes aware of the impending footsteps.

"Yes, _Esme_." A shriller version of Esme's voice chimes in, "Did you get _any_ sleep last night?"

Startled and perturbed, Andy spins around to face the unanticipated visitor. One of the other two Frost sisters is leering back at him. A mauve long-sleeved blouse, a black pleated skirt, and an insanely high-heeled pair of stilettos, the same clothes that Esme has on— Andy must admit, the girls are _exceptionally_ gifted when it comes to coordinating outfits.

"Shut up, Sophie." Esme snaps, her eyes flare up.

 _At least it's not Phoebe_. Diplomatic and poised, Sophie seems a lot more levelheaded than Phoebe. This sister doesn't enjoy making 'dramatic scenes' and like a typical mean girl, she prefers to insult people behind their backs. Andy recalls being approached by a Frost sibling, during the time when he was still with his parents— a member of the Mutant Underground. High-pitched voice, airy demeanor, Sophie had been assigned to recruit Andy— _while Esme had probably assigned herself to recruit Lorna_. None of this actually matters right now, but it is entertaining to hypothesize that Esme has always fostered feelings for Lorna.

"No, I _won't_ shut up. Not until you stop all of this humiliating nonsense." Sophie growls.

Standing next to Esme, meekly looking down at the floor, Andy knows that he should excuse himself and leave the kitchen. This is a family affair— a petty squabble between siblings— and based on his own experience, remembering past skirmishes with Lauren, it would be better not to intrude.

"So, I'm just gonna—"

"You are just _gonna_ take your cookie and leave." Sophie interrupts, failing to spare Andy a glance as she addresses him.

"It's a _Poptart_." At this moment in time, Andy feels that it is important to correct Sophie.

"Yeah? Well, why don't you stick it up your—"

"Don't speak to him that way!" Esme places herself in front of Andy, assuming a protective stance, "He has nothing to do with this."

"You know what? You're right." Sophie jeers, "Which is why he should _leave_."

"Stop. It isn't Andy's fault that—"

"—That you've been acting like Lorna Dane's _personal dreamcatcher?_ And for what?" Sophie remarks, "Have you really stopped reading her mind? Do you even _know_ what she thinks of you?"

"D-Don't—" Esme warns, her voice scratchy and hoarse.

"Lorna _doesn't_ trust you. She trusts you less than I trust Andy's sense of fashion!" Sophie quips, turning to look at Andy for a split-second, "No offense."

"N-None taken." Andy stutters, answering a little bit too quickly.

Although Sophie couldn't sound less apologetic, Andy won't dare to call her out on it. He audibly gulps, praying for an opportunity to escape this awkward situation, but the distance between him and doorway seems too far away. Feeling resigned, Andy shoves both hands into his pockets, smiling tentatively at Sophie and Esme. He desperately hopes that Phoebe doesn't join them— being in a confined space with two angry Frost sisters is bad enough.

"Lorna _still_ loves Marcos. She thinks about him all the damn time. She regrets that her daughter will grow up without a father. Remorse. Guilt. Sadness. It's so very nauseating." Sophie continues to divulge, "But what is even more nauseating, more revolting than Lorna's feelings— is _you_. You're running around, looking like some pathetic, _love_ - _struck_ puppy."

"Wha-What?" All the color drains from the blonde's pale cheeks, "I am n-not in love! That's preposterous!" Esme feigns a conviction that she evidently does not possess, "I spent the whole night making sure that Lorna sleeps peacefully so she doesn't obliterate this entire building with her powers. Don't twist my intentions, Sophie. I am just following Reeva's orders."

"Denial, ha!" Sophie snickers, "What an innovative defense mechanism." Her eyes shimmer with a turquoise luminescence, "Does Reeva _order_ you to spend every waking moment, thinking about Lorna?  
Is Reeva the reason _why_ you've spent hours trying to find the best obstetrician this side of the East Coast? Did Reeva _command_ you to drive across the city, looking for a French bakery that sells authentic madeleine cookies— just because Lorna had a craving? And did the soon mother-to-be even _thank_ you, Esme?"

"Sophie, please—"

"She barely even acknowledges your existence half the time!"

"Stop this." Esme grouses, snarling through gritted teeth, "Andy is standing right there."

"Oh, I know. And I want him to hear this." Sophie confesses, "Because maybe then you'll feel mortified enough to renounce these stupid, one-sided feelings."

"I don't have feelings for Lorna!" Esme protests.

Sophie's eyes light up, and a smug grin overtakes her face, "You forget, Esme— I know when you're lying."

 _I don't have feelings for Lorna_. It takes all of Andy's willpower to stop himself from snickering. He doesn't have to be clairvoyant in order to realize that Esme is lying. The blonde follows Lorna around like a clingy, three-month-old kitten, and it was cute for Andy, to observe fleeting interactions between the two young women from a distance, but Sophie's words give him a reason to pause. Reevaluating everything that he has seen— does Lorna _truly_ , only feel indifference toward Esme?

"Can you give us a minute alone, Andy?" Esme murmurs the request, and Andy wonders why it took her this long to make it.

"S-Sure. Yeah." Gripping the sealed _Poptart_ package, Andy nods and begins to walk away.

"Yes. Run along now." Sophie teases, "The adults are speaking."

"A-And Andy?" Esme's voice hitches, and she wraps her fingers encircling Andy's wrist, halting his movements, "Please, please don't tell Lorna about any of this."

"I won't." Andy swivels around, and he grins reassuringly at Esme, "I promise." She responds with a watery smile of her own, before letting go of his hand.

"Oh yes, please Andy." Sophie mocks, "Please don't tell Lorna that Esme is _not_ in love with her."

Now Andy _really_ needs to leave, the atmosphere has become unbearably disconcerting for him. But even as the young man departs, he can tell that the sisterly feud is far from over. Sophie's smirk doesn't falter, and Esme's glare remains locked on her sister's pretentious face. Two sets of blue eyes, gleaming with resentment, and the animosity hanging in the air seems so thick that Andy doesn't know how to breath. It all feels like one garbled blur, and he runs out of the kitchen, not sparing either blonde another glance.

This conversation felt too personal, and the boy knows that he was infringing on an intimate moment. Esme's sentiments aren't just mere playthings, they shouldn't have been treated with such callous disregard. Sophie's cruel behavior angers Andy, because her claims were baseless and erroneous, the notion that Lorna doesn't care about Esme— it couldn't be further from the truth. Andy constantly witnesses the way that the left corner of Lorna's mouth twitches upward into a brief half-smirk if he utters the girl's name, or how her gaze always roams over Esme's long legs whenever the pretty blonde is wearing one of those sinfully short skirts. That must all mean something, or rather, perhaps Andy simply has a penchant for lost causes.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Trivial Sentimentalities

* * *

 

The Mutant Underground is a clandestine organization that was established after barbaric anti-mutant laws were enacted across most areas of North America. Poorly structured, lacking any type of central leadership, without a sufficient amount of funds or resources, this nationwide network of resistance groups operates under the idealistic belief that humans and mutants should be able to coexist peacefully, a noble— _albeit inefficient_ —philosophy that often breeds failure.

A small faction in Atlanta had been founded by John Proudstar and Lorna Dane, respectively known as _Thunderbird_ and _Polaris_ , self-appointed codenames that were meant to propagate anonymity. Trying to evade unethical incarceration, mutants from all over the state of Georgia gathered together to form this congregation. Drifters, refugees, vagabonds, Andy Strucker and his family resided amongst those clusters of defenseless people who needed help. Taking shelter within the basements of abandoned mansions, rummaging for food, the Mutant Underground struggles _just_ to keep its constituents alive, and despite its co-leaders best efforts, these dismal living conditions never improve, not as long as humans continue to hate mutants.

It doesn't surprise Esme, that when the moment came, Lorna chose to join the Inner Circle. While the decision seemed impulsive, the young woman had to think ahead— to look toward a new future. Her unborn daughter deserved a better world, a life free from the constant fear, and all the petty insecurities that being treated like an outcast instills. Although a part of Lorna will always regret abandoning her friends, some things are just more important than trivial sentimentalities. And Esme couldn't help but fall in love with this strength, with Lorna's sheer determination to do anything for child.

And it is the _worst_ kind of poetic justice, how Esme's own trivial sentimentalities are tormenting her now. So she spends most days confined to her bedroom, hiding behind closed doors, sitting on the edge of the mattress, trying to read some pretentious novel. In order to avoid overhearing other people's thoughts, the blonde inserts a set of noise-canceling headphones into her ears, and turns up the music to the highest possible volume adjustment. Then she can brood in seclusion, reassessing Sophie's words of discouragement, while simultaneously wondering why Lorna _even_ thinks about Marcos, let alone _loves_ him.

The young man had made a choice— he decided that staying faithful to his naive ideals was more pertinent than remaining by Lorna's side. And to Esme, the notion of _anything_ taking precedence over being with the green-haired girl just seems completely absurd. Perhaps _that_ is what hurts the most, how Marcos _still_ has Lorna's love, and Esme doesn't know if she can pretend to be calm and collected when her heart aches _this_ much.

 _Come on_ , _Reeva has an assignment for us_. The telepathic message buzzes into Esme's head, just as the bedroom door creaks open. Footsteps approach, a rhythmic clicks of high-heeled shoes tapping against the floor. _Besides_ , _you haven't even been reading_. Esme sighs, and closes her book— given the fact that this particular statement is true. She hasn't really been processing any of the words, not when Lorna is the only thing on her mind.

"And if you are going to mope around all day, and listen to super depressing music—" A hoarse version of Esme's own voice pierces through the music. She finally looks up, and is met with two bright, gleaming blue eyes, "Can you at least change the _damn_ song every once in a while?"

A mirror image is standing right in front of Esme, wearing an expression that might be interpreted as immensely annoyed— _Phoebe_. She huffs, before reaching over and tugging at Esme's headphones. Fingers coiling around thin bundle of cords, Phoebe yanks the music device from out of Esme's hands and stuffs it into the top drawer of a nearby nightstand. Her movements are so fast that Esme doesn't have time to react.

"Hey!" Esme protests as Phoebe shuts the drawer close, "You _could_ just block me out."

Phoebe shrugs, flashing an unapologetic smile, because honestly, she has been forced to hear Esme's entire playlist of pathetically sad songs— on a never-ending loop —for at least six hours. There is limit to how many times a person can listen to _Shiver_ by Coldplay and still retain the will to live.

"Or _you_ could just get over this— thing with Lorna." Phoebe retorts.

Esme lets out an exasperated breath before replying, "It's not that simple, Phoebe."

"But it is _that_ embarrassing, Esme." Phoebe echoes Sophie's sentiments, and Esme despises the idea of having to engage in the same argument _twice_ , "You spend all your time pining for Lorna, wondering why you aren't good enough, and frankly, honey, none of this makes much sense to me."

"It doesn't even make sense to _me_!" Esme stumbles to her feet, sliding off from the bed, "I know that Lorna is in love with someone else." She takes a few steps forward, closing the small distance between Phoebe and herself, "But I don't need you and Sophie constantly reminding me that I'm not what Lorna wants."

"Wait. What?" Phoebe scrunches up her nose, seemingly bewildered by Esme's insinuations, "You _really_ think that Lorna doesn't want you?"

"Did you not hear me?" Esme growls, practically seething with anger— because admitting that Lorna will always have feelings for Marcos is tearing her apart at the seams, "She's still in love with her ex-boyfriend."

"And so what?" Phoebe frowns, "She can be both— attracted to you and in love with Martin."

"Marcos." Esme corrects.

 _Who cares?_ "Whatever." Phoebe dismisses the clarification by rolling her eyes, "My point _still_ stands. You are exceptionally pretty—"

"And straight girls don't pay attention to that." Esme interjects.

A hysterical cackle spills out from Phoebe's lips, and she brings a hand up to her mouth, hoping to muffle it. Just merely suggesting that Lorna Dane is heterosexual sounds _so_ ridiculous— it literally takes Phoebe about five minutes to recompose herself. Because Lorna hasn't even been _subtle_. She always _tries_ to look away whenever Esme wears a short skirt, but her eyes often roam across every inch of the blonde's legs. And Esme must have noticed Lorna staring at her chest, right?

"If you think that Lorna is straight, then _you're_ the one who isn't paying attention." Phoebe jokes, and then she makes another compelling counterargument, "Why don't you just read her mind?"

Phoebe's question presses up against Esme's chest, the words wrapping themselves around her heart, squeezing tighter and tighter, until she feels that the fragile organ might explode. Esme bites down hard on her lower lip, she doesn't even attempt to formulate an adequate response— because Phoebe just wouldn't understand. Fear overrules curiosity. Taking a glimpse into Lorna's mind and discovering that the green-haired girl only harbors resentment toward her is _a lot_ worse than not knowing anything at all.

Then a glittering luminescence flashes across a pair of blue eyes. _Whizz_. Unwilling to finish the discussion, Phoebe browses through Esme's thoughts, seeking an answer that at least seems comprehensible— what she actually finds becomes too difficult to accept. Because wanting to sleep with a beautiful young woman is something _simple_ , an endeavor that Phoebe can encourage, but all this unbridled affection for Lorna, it ventures into a _very_ dangerous territory, where loyalties are tested, and Esme's heart will just end up becoming collateral damage.

* * *

Within the third trimester of a conventional pregnancy, the baby is due at any given time, and therefore, aching uterine spasms known as _Braxton Hicks_ contractions begin to occur, a phenomenon that imitates labor pains. These irregular, unpredictable cramps are common among most expecting mothers, a normal aspect of the birthing process— however, the majority of women do not create volatile waves of magnetic energy during each muscular tightening.

Every time that Lorna experiences a _Braxton Hicks_ contraction, the entire facility starts to shake. The fortifying skeletal framework of iron beams that comprises the building are viciously rattled by the green-haired girl's volatile electromagnetic energy. When Lorna groans, and brings a hand up to cradle her abdomen, all the surrounding walls tremble. If she grunts, and her face twists into an aggrieved expression, then the steel-augmented floors quiver.

In order to accommodate for Lorna's unique circumstances, Reeva instructs the Frost triplets to acquire a sturdier location— a place where the young woman can give birth to her child without accidentally tearing the roof down. Sequestered, the enormous warehouse is situated near the outskirts of the city, far away from the populated neighborhoods, which unfortunately means that the distance between the building and the main headquarters seems to be considerably large.

Traveling in a luxurious sports utility vehicle with dark-tinted windows, the drive lasts longer than an hour. Andy shuffles against his leather seat, feeling slightly uncomfortable. Sitting there next to Lorna for such an extended period of time, Andy dutifully serves as the pregnant woman's emotional support, even though he is barely a teenager himself. During these awkward moments, Andy and Lorna both think about certain members of the Mutant Underground. Lorna misses John, her best friend, the young man who always knew the right thing to say, while Andy misses a purple-haired girl named _Clarice_ — or perhaps, he just misses her ability to produce interdimensional, _convenient_ portals.

Still, Andy aims to seem composed, strong, and cavalier, at least for Lorna's sake. The older girl needs to have someone by her side— an _unconditional_ friend. Because there is a chasm between Esme and Lorna now, a brooding tension that the blonde has created herself. Sophie's words were toxic, and they had penetrated into Esme's head, prompting her to pull away from Lorna. It disappoints Andy, the disconnected manner in which Esme chooses to renounce her feelings, rather than act on them, but another part of him— _the young inexperienced boy who doesn't even know how to approach a potential love interest_ —mostly sympathizes with the telepath's fear of rejection.

The sun blazes brightly across the sky, so blinding, ignorant to the events transpiring down below— and in a similar fashion, Lorna doesn't seem to notice how distant Esme has become. Andy sighs, because after spending all this time ruminating over the two girls, he can probably write a novel. _Esme and Lorna: Chronicles of Loving From Afar and Living In Complete Denial_. Tires screech as the rubber grinds against the asphalt, disrupting Andy's musings, and the Inner Circle's motorcade comes to an abrupt stop.

Disembarking at this reclusive destination, Reeva leads the pack, wearing a dress that looks as impractical as it does elegant— the _typical_ combination of adjectives used to describe all the woman's outfits. Her three identical subordinates follow, synchronized in such an impassive manner that Andy can't distinguish which one Esme might be. Then there is Lorna, who seems clearly anxious, holding on tightly to her belly as she steps out of the vehicle. Endowed with a protective demeanor, Andy stays close to the green-haired girl, falling in line behind her.

"Well, Lorna, what do you think?" Reeva asks, guiding them all toward the entrance of the deserted building.

A series of tall, windowless edifices, stacked behind one another, each made of solely concrete and cement. No metallic reinforcement bars, not a single scrap of iron, brass, steel, or even aluminum, nothing that Lorna's powers can manipulate— it is _safe_. But the walls are just so gray, so lifeless, and the hot, dry air reeks of petroleum, of rust. Lorna doesn't want to give birth to her daughter here, in an abandoned industrial warehouse, amidst so much lethargy and emptiness.

"This is where I'm giving birth?" Lorna removes her sunglasses, expecting the building to look less like a prison when she views it from a clearer perspective, "Lovely." Lorna turns to Reeva, "Wha-what is it?"

"It was originally a munitions warehouse." One of the Frost siblings answers, eager to please Lorna, "All stone and concrete."

The blonde's expression tries to remain neutral, while her eyes are hidden behind a pair of dark sunglasses, and although most people wouldn't be able to decipher which of the Frost triplets is speaking, Lorna knows— she always _knows_. Esme's mannerisms betray her. The telepath's voice overflows with warmth, and despite her attempts at seeming nonchalant, Lorna _just knows_. Recognizing Esme has become second nature, a deeply ingrained skill.

And yet, for all the things that Lorna knows about Esme, she doesn't understand why the golden-haired girl has been acting so unapproachable lately. Aloof, strangely quiet and reserved— full of this jittery, nervous energy. Lorna wonders if she might have offended Esme in some way, perhaps one of her boisterous outbursts, or a snide comment, but not a single transgression comes to mind.

"We'll modify it, of course—" Reeva reassures, "For your comfort."

"A _comfortable_ munitions warehouse." Lorna quips.

"This was the only place strong enough." Esme replies defensively— because she had spent hours searching for a location that was fortified, strong, and _safe_. Lorna's lack of gratitude is insulting, it validates every single one of Sophie's cruel assumptions, the claims that Esme's efforts will never be good enough, and it all just _hurts_.

And while Esme is wallowing in self-pity, Lorna holds onto her abdomen, releasing a guttural moan. The pregnant young woman hunches over, crippled by such excruciating pain that she just can't stop herself from emitting electromagnetic impulses. Gasping, unable withstand the cramping aches, Lorna struggles to control her volatile abilities. Waves of unseen energy vibrate across the ground, a long metal lamp post trembles and a nearby welded wire fence shakes.

The shrieking sound of the tires skidding against the pavement, one of the sports utility vehicles is propelled forward, sliding across the ground. Helpless to counteract the repercussions of Lorna's powers, Reeva, Andy, and the three Frost siblings— they all just stare as the black station wagon moves of its own accord, flinching when it stops right in front of them. Lorna pants, out of breath, sweat beading down her forehead.

"Sorry." Lorna apologizes sheepishly, "The baby's just kicking."

The danger may have reached a conclusion— but nevertheless, the incident leaves a terse silence behind in its wake. An all-encompassing kind of discomfort resonates through everyone standing around Lorna, and the tension almost feels tangible. Andy straightens out his shoulders, he is trying to appear calm. _Whizz_. A frowning Sophie conveys her concern to Phoebe, who wears an impassive scowl. Reeva shares a meaningful look with Esme, wordlessly acknowledging how problematic Lorna's situation might become.

But the green-haired girl's deteriorating  
condition has affected Esme more than it should, and her mind begins to wander, lingering on morbid, irrational thoughts. If a brief outburst can generate enough force to thrust a heavy, large object across a distance of several meters, then the lengthy process of childbirth will produce catastrophic results. _Calm down_ , _Esme_. Sophie's voice echoes in Esme's head. _We won't let anything bad happen to Lorna_. Phoebe promises. _Or to the baby_. Sophie adds softly. Her sisters are being uncharacteristically kind, which worsens Esme's fears— Sophie and Phoebe only show compassion when the situation is dire.

A sense of dread envelops Esme's heart, and she feels worried, because the warehouse won't keep Lorna safe, not from unforeseeable complications. Being so impotent frightens Esme the most— the inconceivable notion that there might be an instant when Lorna's life becomes endangered by the birth of her unborn child, a moment in which only _one_ of them can be saved. And although Lorna will prioritize the baby's health over her own, Esme doesn't know if she is capable of respecting those wishes.

* * *

Loneliness. Such an intricate and unpleasant emotional response. It usually stems from being subjected to long, extended periods of isolation and seclusion. But an individual can be surrounded by many companions, and still feel completely alone, because the truth about loneliness is founded on one single, fundamental principle— that a person soul's simply yearns to find an equivocal partner, and it never seems to settle for anything less.

Lorna is familiar with this woeful sensation, the way that it weighs down heavily on her chest, tugging at the heartstrings. _Was Marcos her soulmate?_  The young woman paces around the main briefing room, a hand placed over her bulging stomach, and she just feels so tired. Staring out the window, Lorna watches as the blackness of the night overtakes the city landscape. She strives to organize the messy thoughts running through her head.

Andy sits on top of a small decorative staircase, foot dangling along the edge. Clad in a leather jacket, wearing a crooked smile, he displays a devil-may-care attitude, the boy who tries so hard to be a man. Andy has been quiet— _too quiet_ —and it almost seems as if he knows exactly what Lorna is feeling. _Loneliness_. Andy's amber eyes are always shining with this sorrowful emotion that no one ever enjoys talking about. But if Andy is going to be alone, he rather be alone by Lorna's side.

"Really, it's all right, Andy." Lorna's voice unexpectedly shatters the amicable silence, "You can go to bed."

"It's no problem. I'm fine keeping you company." Andy reassures, "Are you feeling sick? Or—"

"No, ju-just tired." Lorna mumbles, holding onto her belly.

"You want me to pitch more baby names?" Andy offers, smiling up at Lorna, "I got a bunch."

Lorna chuckles, shaking her head from side to side, and Andy is happy that he can still make her laugh, "The old ones were bad enough. You should be naming porn stars, not babies."

Andy stands up, slipping both hands into the front pockets of his pants, "What's wrong with _Bolt_?" He scoffs, "Besides, you haven't heard the new stuff."

Armed with a goofy grin, Andy walks closer to Lorna, but right at that moment, the ceiling lamps start to malfunction. The lights blink erratically and emit loud electric crackles. A shrill droning sound resonates across the large compartment. Lorna groans, bending over and hugging her belly. She is clearly suffering through immense amounts of pain, and even though Andy doesn't know what to do, he diligently rushes to her side.

"Lorna, what is it?" Andy asks, his smile twisting to a frown, "What's wrong? Are you—"

"Get them, Andy." Lorna latches onto one Andy's arms, "Get _them_. It's time. The baby's coming." She releases her grip on his wrist.

"O-Okay, okay!" Disappearing into the hallway, Andy sprints out of the room.

"Go, go, go, go." Lorna mutters weakly.

Having barely enough strength to stand, Lorna waddles toward a nearby couch, hips swaying with every rickety step that she takes. Grunting and moaning, the pregnant woman lowers herself down onto the middle sofa cushion. She leans against the backrest, her eyes fluttering shut. Lorna is breathless, panting as sweat drips along the sides of her face— she feels unable to endure all the burning waves of pain that are produced by each muscular spasm.

But in spite of the gut-wrenching contractions, what hurts Lorna the most is that she has to go through all of this alone. So then Lorna thinks about Marcos, and the comfort that his presence used to bring. _It must have been love_. He knew the perfect thing to say, stringing the right words into phrases that always managed to ease the doubts poisoning Lorna's mind.  _And it has to be love_. Because when his ability to emanate light photons reacted with her electromagnetic powers— they could generate a resplendent, glittering aurora borealis, and its green energy would swirl around them.

That _was_ love, and as Lorna winces in pain, she clings onto the memory of Marcos, to the decomposing vestiges of their adoration for one another. But after a while, Lorna's thoughts begin to reshuffle themselves, and the color of his brown irises fades away. She sees two sparkling blue eyes, and the blurred apparition that had once been a handsome, dark-haired man, now becomes the vivid image of a beautiful girl with shoulder-length golden curls. Esme replaces Marcos, and Lorna doesn't want to overanalyze what that could possibly mean.

 _Lorna, calm down_. And then Esme's voice calls out to Lorna, gentle and soothing. It somehow alleviates the aching cramps that are rippling through Lorna's body. _Breath in_ , _breath out_. Esme whispers softly, in such a tender and caring manner that it coerces the usually rebellious young woman to dutifully obey. _You are going to be fine_ , _Lorna_. _I won't let anything happen to you or the baby_. Esme's promises are brimming with affection, and although this definitely _isn't_ love— sitting by herself on a couch in the middle of an empty room —Lorna finally feels less alone.

* * *

Throughout one of the many foyer rooms that the large facility has, an eerie silence lingers. On the other side of a tall window panel, there lies a wide panoramic view of the city, and the sky serves as a complementary background. Dusk is progressing slowly, the prismatic transition from day to night. The golden sun begins its descent into the western horizon, painting the clouds with warm array of colors, bright oranges, pinks, and reds, until only pitch-black darkness remains.

Esme needed some time by herself, so she had decided to curl up against the corner of a sectional lounge couch. The blonde attentively observes the scene unfolding before her. Wispy bits of solar light fading into the shadows, as the stratosphere shifts from pale blue to murky indigo. Head resting over a velvety cushion, Esme tries to enjoy this quiet moment, urging her mind not to dwell on things that cannot be controlled— and for several minutes, she is successful.

Then suddenly, the walls start to shake, and one of Reeva's favorite paintings— an overrated abstract composition known as _Rorschach_ , from the late Andy Warhol — falls down to the floor. The glass encasement of the frame shatters when it hits the hard surface, shards scattering everywhere. All the furniture pieces wobble, vibrations sweeping across the entire foyer room. Esme's heart is pounding roughly against her chest, and she wastes no time in standing up. The light fixtures are flickering, the tiny bulbs turning on and off. Esme already knows what has happened— she doesn't need anyone to tell her.

"The baby's coming!" A frantic shout confirms Esme's suspicions, and as Andy stumbles into the foyer room, the scowl on his face says all the things that the teenager himself cannot verbalize. The boy is scared, absolutely terrified, and he gazes at Esme, expecting the blonde to provide him with further instructions.

"Go to Lorna. Bring her to the garage." Esme says calmly, acting as if she hasn't been dreading this moment for days now, "My sisters and I will take care of everything else."

"Y-Yeah?" Andy looks relieved, "Okay, yeah." Without questioning Esme's orders, he takes off running.

Esme keeps a neutral expression plastered on her face until Andy exits the foyer room. But after he leaves, Esme's cold, indifferent demeanor melts away, and her mouth contorts into a tight-lipped grimace. _Whizz_. Esme's eyes shimmer with a turquoise glow, she lets Sophie and Phoebe pry into her mind. _Don't worry_ , _Esme_. _We'll take care of everything_. Unless Sophie and Phoebe have acquired some supernatural control over life and death, their hollow reassurances don't seem to mollify Esme's fears.

The clairvoyant mutant can just _feel_ it— the foreboding sensation that something must be wrong, and her telepathic powers reach out, like they do during the sleepless nights when Lorna is having a bad dream. But instead of answers, Esme only finds throbbing pulses of seething pain. _Lorna_ , _calm down_. With a soft murmur, Esme invades Lorna's thoughts, and for the greater good, she breaks her vow to abstain from doing so. _Breath in_ , _breath out_. Esme instructs, hoping not to sound condescending, because she knows that Lorna hates to be patronized.

Esme feels as Lorna's mind relaxes, tumultuous worries begin to dissipate. _You are going to be fine_ , _Lorna_. _I won't let anything happen to you or the baby_. And the promise sounds bold and presumptuous, but Esme's conviction remains absolute— she won't allow any harm to come to Lorna, or to the child. Although it might not be Esme's place to decide what is best for Lorna, she refuses to let the young woman go through all of this alone.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Dawn of a New Age

* * *

 

Every single year, unforeseeable complications due to pregnancies and childbirth result in at least five-hundred thousand maternal deaths. Furthermore, about seven million women have serious long-term problems, while approximately fifty million women develop negative health outcomes— following the delivery of their offspring. And these statistics don't account for exceptionally powerful, _female mutants_ who can generate electromagnetic pulses, or how these aforementioned forces are capable of demolishing entire buildings.

Sixteen miles. That is the distance between the Inner Circle's headquarters and the munitions warehouse. Fingers snaking around the steering wheel, heart pounding against the breastbone, Esme even doesn't notice any of the signal lights, her mind has been solely focused on driving forward. With a foot pressing firmly into the right pedal, she drives, and drives, purposely disregarding everything else. Navigating through the crowded city streets, Esme must have committed at least twenty traffic infractions.  
  
Driving the first of two identical, black sports utility vehicles, Esme is alone. Phoebe and Sophie don't trust her judgment right now, not when it comes to Lorna's wellbeing. So for fifty-three excruciatingly long minutes, Esme throws glances at the rearview mirror, watching over the _other_ sports utility vehicle, the one following from behind—the one being driven by Phoebe, with Sophie in the passenger seat— the one that carries Lorna and Andy. _We're almost there_ , _keep your eyes on the road_. Phoebe reprimands. _Esme_ , _just relax_. Sophie chimes in, hoping to pacify her sister's anxiety.  
  
But Esme doesn't know how to calm herself down, and these distasteful feelings begin to spread through the other two Frost siblings. Esme's current state of mind is counterproductive, she should focus more on the task at hand, and think less about pessimistic, unlikely scenarios where Lorna, or the baby— _or both_ —die during childbirth. _Esme_ , _let us help you calm down_. Sophie and Phoebe speak in unison, inducing telepathic reassurances directly into their own sister's head, manipulating and warping her thoughts.  
  
By the time that both sports utility vehicles arrive at the warehouse, Esme's nervous ruminations have already been appeased, replaced with a series of comforting facts and statistics. Wearing an apathetic expression, Esme steps out of the station wagon, her heels click against the asphalt pavement. She doesn't need to look back, her mind can sense that Sophie and Phoebe are disembarking from the second vehicle. Esme hears Lorna's deafening groans, and how Andy grunts as he attempts to assist the pregnant young woman, but the blonde girl walks on ahead— she has to refine her composure and remain calm.  
  
"The chances of Lorna dying during labor are approximately 0.02 percent." Esme whispers to herself.  
  
Even though this probability percentage doesn't take Lorna's mutant powers into consideration, certain contingency plans have already been set in place. Manifested as a twirling mist of green energy, the pulses emitted by Lorna can manipulate metals, and every time that she experiences a contraction, electromagnetic waves ripple out of her. In order to avoid a castrophic incident, a large four-walled room was constructed. Allocated at the center of warehouse, the box-shaped structure is made entirely of glass, plastic, and other nonmetallic materials.  
  
"And the chances of Lorna falling in love with you are _slightly_ higher." Phoebe appears right next to Esme, while Sophie lingers near the back with Lorna and Andy, "I read her mind, she doesn't trust us. She thinks we would pick her over the baby— if it came down to it."

Esme doesn't reply, because Phoebe already knows— regardless of how insensitive and cruel it might seem, she  _would_ choose Lorna's life over everything else, without a doubt. But right now, Esme just needs to concentrate on moving forward. She marches through the corridors as the light fixtures along the ceiling flicker erratically, the buzzing sound of static electricity reverberate across the building.  
  
"Esme, it's almost time." Sophie rushes to walk alongside her sisters, "We need to hurry."  
  
Sophie gives Esme a sympathetic look as Lorna's groans grow louder and louder, echoing from behind them. The lull period between the contractions has become too brief, while the uterine cramps are intensifying. Time is running out. Esme quickens her pace, swinging open the double doors that lead into the main chambers.

Poised and nonchalant, Reeva has been waiting, wearing one of her typical— and _unreadable_ —expressions, she stands next to the obstetrician, a balding, middle-aged man who seems somewhat competent. A large glass structure comes into view as Esme enters through the doorway. Located in the middle of the wide room, the tall confined encasement is sturdy, composed of bullet-proof glass panels and thermoplastic polymer frames.  
  
"Everything metal, lock it down— Now!" Esme yells out.  
  
Maintenance workers are running around the warehouse. Screwdrivers. Wrenches. Hammers. Every loose tool is a potential hazard. All items that contain a substantial amount of metal must be secured and fastened. _Whizz_. _Whizz_. _Whizz_. Irises glowing brightly, the Frost siblings give the staff some telepathic incentive, ordering them to vacate the premises after abiding by Esme's orders.  
  
Having assessed the severity of the situation, Reeva removes both of her earrings, discarding the metallic trinkets on a nearby table. The three sisters saunter toward Reeva, and placing a hand around the older woman's bicep, Esme is the one who leans over to speak, "I think it's time." She announces, just as the ceiling lamps begin to blink.  
  
Esme's stomach churns, and her heartbeat accelerates, but she continues to display a relatively calm demeanor. _Lorna is going to be fine_. Sophie insists, and this statement has to be true— because Esme doesn't know what she will do if anything happens to Lorna. _Don't let Reeva notice how much of a mess you are_. Phoebe warns, as Andy and Lorna stumble through the doors. It takes all of Esme's willpower to stop herself from rushing toward them.  
  
The lights flash on and off; the linear fluorescent tubes shudder against their steel-plated reflectors. Lorna grunts and moans, afflicted by so much pain. She staggers across the room, her feet wobbling with each step. The young woman feels as though she might collapse onto the ground— if it weren't for Andy's unwavering support. Serving as a faithful escort, he wraps his hands around Lorna's arm, trying to help her reach the glass compartment.  
  
"It's okay." Andy says, "Just-just hold on."  
  
"It's not that simple." Lorna pants, "I can't control, I can't—"  
  
Stricken by a particularly intense contraction, Lorna lets out a blood-curdling scream, and her powers react instinctively to a nonexistent threat. A piece of heavy machinery slides along the floor. Solid iron wrenches, handheld power drillers, aluminum tank barrels, and entire toolboxes, are thrown against the walls— as if all these things weighed _nothing_.  
  
"Get her inside!" Reeva orders.  
  
And Andy eagerly complies, struggling toward the glass compartment and pushing open the main door. The lights are still malfunctioning, and as the electromagnetic charges wafting through the air become too volatile— some of the bulbs explode, littering the floor with broken shards. Leaning against the walls, Lorna waddles into the metal-free chambers. Andy is obviously worried, but that doesn't stop him from holding onto the older girl's arm.  
  
"We're not ready." The doctor argues with Reeva, "We need more time."  
  
"It seems the child disagrees." Reeva quips, "You're the mutant specialist. You'll figure something out."  
  
Hiding behind a tight-lipped grimace, Esme tries to conceal her hysterical, all-encompassing emotions under a superficial mask of mild concern. The blonde's heart lurches, because it just _hurts_ , to see the girl that she cares for— the girl that she _loves_ —experiencing so much discomfort and pain. But when Lorna cries out, and hunches over pitifully, slouching against Andy's chest, Esme is unable to suppress her feelings any longer.  
  
Dashing to Lorna's side, Esme wraps a hand around the young woman's shoulder, and with Andy's assistance, they manage to guide her onto the medical cot. _Just lie_ _back_. Esme conveys telepathically, as she lifts up Lorna's legs, and tucks them beneath a blanket. _Calm down_. Esme looks down at Lorna and smiles softly. _Breath in_ , _breath out_. Her voice serves as a fast-acting sedative, whispering gentle words of comfort straight into Lorna's mind.  
  
With a fearful sort of reverence, Esme's hand skids up Lorna's calf, her fingers brushing along the young woman's shin. Esme's movements are tentative, she observes utmost discretion when caressing Lorna's knee, afraid that these overly affectionate touches will reveal her true feelings. But then another violent contraction rakes through Lorna's body, and Esme realizes just how serious the situation is becoming. Lorna _needs_ her help.

 _Whizz_. Esme's cerulean irises shimmer as she browses through Lorna's hazy thoughts, trying to find whatever might be aggrieving the green-haired girl. _Marcos should be here with me_. The words are accompanied by feral sentiments of melancholy, lingering at the forefront of Lorna's mind. _He deserves to know that I am giving birth to our daughter_. Esme can pinpoint the exact moment that she feels her own heart drop.  
  
Jealousy is such a crippling sentiment, and Esme doesn't know how to alleviate the ache pressing up against her chest. Because in between 'Marcos should be here' and 'he deserves to know' exists the inarguable fact that Marcos _chose_ not to be here— he _chose_ not to know. And it angers Esme, that despite it all, _she_ would still follow Lorna down to the depths of hell. With an abrupt jerking motion, Esme pulls her hand away from Lorna's leg and take a step back.  
  
And although Andy senses that something has happened, he won't waste precious time by psychoanalyzing Esme's behavioral mood shifts— Lorna is his top priority now. _I need you to protect the baby_. The young woman's voice echoes across Andy's mind. _You are a Von Strucker_. _Stop them_. _However you have to_. _Promise me_. The boy had made a promise, to keep Lorna's baby safe, even against Esme herself. So without further hesitation, he moves to lean over Lorna's bedside.  
  
Esme gravitates toward Reeva, wordlessly perching herself right next to the dark-haired woman. Exchanging somber frowns, Sophie and Phoebe remain silent, looking at Esme with a forlorn expression. There are no secrets amongst the three sisters, due to the symbiotic nature of the telepathic bond that they share. And Esme _hates_ the sympathy— the _pity_ —gleaming so brightly in their eyes.  
  
"We don't have much time, Ms. Dane." The doctor has donned a pair of latex gloves, "I am going to need you to spread open your legs." He crouches in between Lorna's legs— with a worried expression plastered across his face, "And push!"

Then Lorna releases an earsplitting howl, her face contorted by distress. The entire building trembles. While the glass panels remain unaffected, the young woman's electromagnetic power attracts every miscellaneous metal item within an widening radius. Screws, bolts, hammers, crowbars, pipes, all rattling around in the warehouse, and the ceiling light fixtures don't stop flashing until Lorna's screaming subsides.  
  
Esme's calm disposition falters, and she shuffles closer Reeva, her hand resting on the older woman's shoulder. With every minute that passes, Lorna's condition worsens. The uterine contractions and the electromagnetic spasms are each becoming more aggressive, reacting to one another, and Lorna's body seems to be deteriorating under the physical strain of it all. _Helplessness_. The feeling leaves a bitter taste in Esme's mouth, but there is absolutely nothing that she can do to remedy any of this.  
  
"You're gonna be okay." Andy mutters, "We're all here. Just-Just breathe."  
  
"I'm _trying_ —" Lorna cries out, "To breathe!"  
  
"Push again!" The young woman's body does not assent to the obstetrician's frantic demands. Lorna grunts and moans, perspiration dripping down her forehead. Magnetism overcharges the surrounding atmosphere, and those fractals of energy seep into the building's internal wiring network, becoming bursts of electricity that pulsate through the exiting output cables. The situation is escalating, the potency of Lorna's abilities has been amplified by her unyielding pain, and at this rate— the entire city will experience a catastrophic power outage when she finally gives birth to the child.  
  
An involuntary reflex, Esme's grip tightens around Reeva's arm, and she leans over to whisper, "Reeva, she might not survive this unless we can calm her down. Please, let us help. We have to—"  
  
Esme's nervous ramblings are interrupted by a shrill, piercing scream. All the ceilings lamps flicker uncontrollably as Lorna groans. On and off, the light fixtures drone loudly, until some of the bulbs overheat themselves and explode. Bright, bursts of golden sparks raining down, and shards of broken glass litter the floor. Lorna writhes and thrashes, her back arching upward.  
  
"Keep pushing!" For an expert mutant obstetrician, his strategy of yelling out the same statement seems very ineffective.  
  
Other noises begin to synchronize with Lorna's shrieks. Rambunctious banging. Trash cans and aluminum barrels fly into the walls. Metallic clinking. Iron nuts and washers tap against the glass panels of the enclosed compartment. Howling screeches. The sound of tires grinding om the asphalt pavement is heard coming from outside the building. The range of Lorna's powers has incremented substantially, trucks and automobiles that had been parked by nearby areas are now being tossed around the warehouse's backyard.  
  
"Keep pushing!" The grey-haired man persists, kneeling down at the edge of the bed, in between Lorna's legs, his mouth becomes an anguished frown. Some unidentified metal objects strike into one of the building's outer walls. More ceiling light fixtures explode, showering the room with radiant sparks. And then suddenly— Lorna collapses against the bed, her eyelids fluttering shut. Esme may not be a medical practitioner, but even she can tell that Lorna is _dying_.

"Something's wrong." The doctor states, as if that particular observation hadn't already been obvious.  
  
"What is it?" Reeva asks, and the tone of her voice indicates that she is not in the mood for vague answers.  
  
"She's not dilating. Her blood pressure is off the charts." Under the scrutiny of Reeva's intense gaze, the man grows nervous, "She won't be able to take this much longer."  
  
"She's fine!" Andy claims, leaning over Lorna's bed, "She just needs to keep pushing." He nudges her softly on the shoulder, "Come on."  
  
Desperate for answers, Esme takes a glimpse into the doctor's mind. _Ms. Dane's condition is worsening_. She hears his thoughts, how he doesn't believe that Lorna can survive this taxing ordeal. _Her vital signs are not improving_. And Esme feels nauseous— because the idea of Lorna not being alive is not only unbearable, it is downright sickening.  
  
"Doctor, we are not going to lose her." Reeva states, almost as if she had some kind of jurisdiction over life and death.  
  
"You don't understand. It's not a medical issue. I-It's a mental block of some kind." The medical prognosis has a clear solution, one that Esme can surely provide. _We will help her_ , _Esme_. _Everything is going to be fine_. Sophie and Phoebe share a perceptive look with their sister, silently acknowledging what needs to be done, "It happens sometimes. If we don't do something soon, she could die."  
  
When the obstetrician finishes speaking, Reeva stays quiet and pensive. Annoyed by the man's utter incompetence, she does not bother with responding to his pessimistic assessment. After taking one quick glance at Lorna, and witnessing how much sheer pain the young woman is in, Reeva realizes that the entire situation has spiraled out of her control. She swivels around and approaches Esme.  
  
Resting a hand on Reeva's back, Esme leans over to whisper, "Let me take care of this, Reeva. I can help— I mean, _we_ can help. B-But there isn't much t-time." Esme's voice cracks, "We have to act now!"  
  
"Enough, Esme." Reeva chides, "There is a simple solution. Lorna is afraid, so you need to show her a glimpse of the future that we are trying build. And _please_ —" She pauses, "Try to keep your feelings for Lorna under control."  
  
"Reeva, I don't know what you're talking about—"  
  
"Yes, you do." Reeva interjects, but much to Esme's surprise, the older woman's eyes twinkle with a glint of genuine compassion, "Lorna already has too many thoughts overflooding her mind, she doesn't need to find out that you're hopelessly infatuated with her right now. Do you understand?"  
  
"I-I understand." Esme acquiesces.  
  
Denial seems pointless at this stage, because being in love with Lorna has been Esme's worst-kept secret. And besides, she doesn't have the energy to feel embarrassed anymore— not when Lorna is laying on a gurney, half-dead and semiconscious. So when Reeva nods and pivots around, Esme quietly follows the dark-haired woman's lead.  
  
"What are you doing?" With a swift movement, Andy positions himself right in between Reeva and Lorna's medical cot.  
  
"We're gonna take care of this." Reeva states.  
  
Lorna's loud grunts turn into a single, high-pitched scream. She squirms against the bedsheets, head shuffling from side to side. The ceiling lamps flicker sporadically as Lorna's electromagnetic powers react to the pain that is coursing through her body. And while Reeva glares at the insolent teenage boy— Esme notices the way that Lorna's chest trembles, heaving up and down. These petty arguments need to end _now_ , because the young woman won't be able to endure much more of this.  
  
"No. I need to know exactly what you're doing." Andy is troubled by Reeva's vague choice of words, "If you're gonna hurt the baby, I—"  
  
"We are here to help the baby and Lorna. She needs to remember what she's fighting for." Reeva places a hand on Andy's arm, "What we're _all_ fighting for." She gives his bicep a gentle squeeze, "That's all we're doing. I promise."  
  
"Andy, please." Esme tries to make an emotional appeal— because time is running out for both Lorna and the baby, "Look at her." Esme murmurs, looking straight into Andy's soft brown eyes, "She needs us." Sophie and Phoebe parrot their sister's last statement.  
  
As another one of Lorna's earthshaking screams vibrates across the glass compartment, Andy is swayed by Esme's heartfelt plea. He steps inside and lets Reeva saunter toward Lorna, "Okay, okay."  
  
Leaning over the bed, Reeva props an arm against the right side of Lorna's pillow, "Lorna, I need you to listen to me now." Her voice is steady and authoritative, "You need to be strong." Struggling to stay conscious, Lorna looks up at Reeva, "We're gonna show you why we're here. We're gonna show you the _dawn_ of a new age."  
  
Articulate and expressive, Reeva is nothing less than _magnificent_ when it comes to divulging motivational speeches— her words are a perfect mixture of eloquence and inspiration. After garnering the drowsy young woman's complete attention, she stands upright and retreat away. Exchanging a meaningful look with the Frost sisters, Reeva beckons them to approach, and then proceeds to circle around Lorna's gurney.  
  
Having been eagerly anticipating Reeva's cue, Esme takes a few steps forward in haste, and slouches over the medical cot. She reaches out for Lorna, the palm of her hand tenderly cradles the disoriented girl's face. Sophie and Phoebe linger at the foot of the bed, dutifully awaiting any further instructions from Esme— because they _know_ , just how important Lorna is to their sister.  
  
"Hey, Lorna." Esme coaxes, her fingers coiling around Lorna's cheek, "Lorna, look at me, look at me." Esme's voice sounds so soothing, and the touch of her hand feels divine against Lorna's clammy skin, "It's okay."  
  
During the later stages of a pregnancy, the female body begins to produce copious amounts of oxytocin; a hormone that is known to reduce anxiety, as well as evoke feelings of calmness and security around the woman's _intended mate_. This doesn't explain why Lorna's breathing steadies when Esme's fingers stroke the base of her neck— or maybe it does, but neither girl seems comfortable with validating the only possible explanation.

 _Whizz_. Esme's eyes light up with a resplendent glow, and as the blonde's lithe fingers continue to caress Lorna's face, her other hand latches onto the young woman's clenched fist. _Whizz_. _Whizz_. Sophie and Phoebe mimic Esme's actions, tuning themselves to one another's thoughts, until their powers combine to form a single, amplified entity. A surge of telepathic energy flows through the three sisters, this radiant, luminance shimmers across their icy-blue irises.

Through half-lidded eyes, Lorna manages to glance up at Esme, holding onto the blonde's hand. _Lorna_. It is so difficult to stay awake, even with Esme's voice ringing in her head. _Lorna_ , _please_. But she needs to remain strong for her child. _Lorna_ , _look at me_. _I'm_ _here_. Lorna feels Esme's fingertips stroking the underside of her jawline. And she is at peace during these few seconds, before a series of bright visions are projected straight into her mind.  
  
Vivid images wash through Lorna's thoughts, a scene unfolds before her. A large congregation of mutants, all gathered around a presidential residence. Andy is standing at Lorna's side, smiling broadly at her. _Today we commemorate a new era of peace and prosperity for all mutantkind_. Reeva announces, and the crowd applauds. Amidst the festive celebration, a child's voice cries out. _Mommy!_ Lorna pivots, and sees a little girl scampering toward her. She embraces the toddler— her daughter. _We did it_ , _baby_. _We really did it_. With a loud gasp, Lorna awakens from the trance, her grip on Esme's hand tightens.  
  
The dream sequence was rather overwhelming, and Esme is left a bit flustered by all of Lorna's feelings. A seemingly odd occurrence, she has _never_ been affected by any of the illusive fabrications that her own powers produce. Looking down, Esme sees how Lorna's fingers are still clutching onto her hand— a warm sensation inflates the blonde's heart.  
  
"Do you see that?" Reeva asks, leaning over Lorna's bed, "That's for her. Do you want that?"  
  
With a newfound sense of determination, Lorna stares back at Reeva, "More than _anything_."  
  
"Then show me you can do _this_." The older woman incites.  
  
And Reeva's reply is enunciated thoroughly, almost as if it were a _challenge_ — a statement meant to spurn the flame of defiance that dances within Lorna's soul. A manipulative and simplistic ploy, but nevertheless, Reeva's approach is a success. Invisible electromagnetic charges are filtering through the atmosphere. Lorna's face crumples up as she closes her eyes and releases a howling scream.  
  
An unseen force oscillates through the whole building. The walls tremble. The floor shakes. A tirade of several thunderous explosions, all the ceiling light fixtures begin to burst. As every fluorescent tube bulb shatters, a flurry of sparks gushes out. It seems as though the range of Lorna's abilities has extended beyond the munition warehouse's perimeter, and now her electromagnetic particles are crawling along the powerlines, pulsating energy across the wires.  
  
Overheating fuse boxes and disabling industrial generators, Lorna's magnetism causes an electrical interference that plunges the entire city into a state of perpetual darkness. Conditions worsen within the warehouse itself, as scattered items are flung violently against the glass panels of the encasement, and while each frame is made from reinforced material, the sheer momentum of the projectiles succeeds in damaging the crystalline surface.  
  
Thick iron pipes. Loose steel fittings. Empty large barrels. Miscellaneous pieces of scrap metal are lifted from off the ground and stirred around through the air. Lorna doesn't stop screaming, and her hysterical cries are accompanied by the strident clangs that these flying objects make when they slam against the walls. So many different noises compete to overshadow one another, until all the sounds blend together and harmonize into a senseless clamor.  
  
Amidst the temptous racket and the confusing chaos, Esme's heart swells up with an emotion that she is too tired of having to suppress. It is an overwhelming feeling— to harbor so much unrequited love for another person, and above all, it simply hurts. Esme doesn't know how to alleviate the throbbing ache that presses roughly against her chest. But still, she clings onto Lorna's hand as if it were a lifeline, and her thumb traces patterns along the young woman's knuckles.  
  
Blinking back tears, Esme's eyes are still trained on Lorna's face. Unidentifiable feelings swirls around in the pits of her stomach, a disconcerting sensation that she can't seem to digest. Esme winces as Lorna's fingers dig into the palm of her hand, and although the green-haired girl's long nails start to draw out blood, she refuses to let go. Because maybe _this_ is where Esme belongs— standing right by Lorna's side.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Esmeralda

* * *

 

Cocooned inside several layers of white blankets, there lies a newborn baby girl, barely weighing six pounds. With a pair of chubby cheeks and a tiny, button-shaped nose, she mewls softly. _Dawn_. Christened after the early morning sunrise— that magnificent moment when shimmering fractals of solar light begin to illuminate the darkened skies. Vibrant brushes of colors spread across the stratosphere, fluffy cumulus clouds are stained by pinkish and bluish hues, made to resemble scattered pieces of cotton candy.

Such a befitting name, since Lorna has never seen anything so breathtakingly beautiful in her entire life. Cuddled up against the apex between Lorna's lower bicep and her forearm, Dawn's grubby little fingers are firmly wrapped around a curly lock of emerald-green hair. The intrepid child tugs on the loose strand, making unintelligible— but utterly _adorable_ —muffled noises, and Lorna can't stop the goofy smile that spreads across her face.

It has been three days since Lorna gave birth to her gorgeous daughter— only three days since she almost caused an _entire_ concrete facility to implode on itself. The harrowing ordeal seems to have enlightened Lorna, it is extremely important to plan ahead, to expect a worst-case scenario. And due to the volatile nature of her electromagnetic powers, she decided to take some necessary precautions, starting with, the procurement of a safer crib for Dawn.

And this is why Lorna's bedroom has become a disorderly, chaotic mess. With steel pins, iron washers, reinforced thin bars, and rubber gaskets sprawled out across the floor, Lorna walks carefully around the scattered hand tools. Replacing all the metal parts on Dawn's crib was more difficult than Lorna had anticipated, and truth be told, she doesn't know the difference between a _flat-tip screwdriver_ and an _insulated bolt-driver_.So Lorna when asks Andy to help her—

"Lorna, can you hand me the wrench?"

Esme shows up instead. Slouching over the crib, the blonde extracts the last remaining iron screw from the rail frame, and then inserts a polyvinyl-chloride plastic bolt into the emptied hole. For the past two hours, she has been haphazardly removing every single metallic component, and exchanging them with adequate nonmetallic substitutes. Needless to say, Esme may not be a certified mechanical engineer, but in order to impress Lorna, she is more than willing to pretend be _anything_.

"The what?" Lorna's nose scrunches up in confusion.

"The blue thing that looks like a crab claw." Esme sighs, tilting her head toward Lorna's nightstand, "It's right _there_ — Next to your lamp."

"Oh." Lorna adjusts her grip on Dawn, before leaning over to grab the wrench, "Here." She waves the heavy tool in front of Esme's face.

"T-Thanks." Esme stammers as she attempts to keep the bolt firmly in place, "I'm almost done. Just need this one and..."

Twisting the wrench against the pinhead, Esme finishes tightening the final replacement bolt on the crib's thermoplastic polymer rail frame. Lorna doesn't want to seem ungrateful, but considering how much Esme is struggling with these utility tools, the green-haired girl wonders if perhaps Andy— or _literally_ anyone else —would have been better suited for this endeavor.

"...Done!" Esme smiles, flipping her golden curls as she stands upright. Pivoting on a heel, the blonde turns around to face Lorna.

"Remind me again why Andy couldn't be the one doing this?" Lorna says, "I mean, his dad _did_ teach him how to properly use hand tools."

"Because Andy is too busy playing _Halo_ —" Esme pauses for a moment to roll her eyes, "Or some other _Nintendo_ video game on his _Playstation_ console."

"Wow. I cannot even—" Lorna scoffs, biting back a grin, "There are just so many things wrong with that statement. I don't even— I don't even know where to begin." She laughs, shaking her head from side to side.

The sound of Lorna's laughter rings through the bedroom, and it is so magical that it steals Esme's breath away while simultaneously endowing her with the courage to take a few tentative steps forward. Esme approaches Lorna cautiously, a wide smile spreading across her face. Head bowing down, Esme's eyes glance at the precious bundle held in Lorna's arms.

"Does Dawn know how geeky you are?" Esme gently rests a hand over Dawn's torso, "Did ya know, Dawn?" She coos as the baby's tiny hand latches onto one of her fingers, "Your mom is just one big _nerd_."

"Well, maybe you should leave the video game lessons to me." Lorna smirks, "And you can teach Dawn how to differentiate a wrench from a socket." She doesn't notice the implications of those words until Esme's gaze shifts toward her.

"Y-Yeah?" Esme's voice sounds wistful and soft, "You want me to teach Dawn things?"

And now there are two, large beautiful cerulean eyes staring at Lorna, gleaming with an emotion that seems heartbreakingly sincere. Esme's smile has faded, and the expression overtaking its place is both somber and hopeful. Lorna can't bring herself to rectify the statement, because deep down, she _does_ want Esme to become a permanent part of Dawn's life— she just _doesn't_ want to verbalize it.

"Yeah." Lorna breathes out, "I do."

The admission flies out of Lorna's lips before she can second-guess it, and a nervous sort of tension gathers inside her stomach, the irrational fear of rejection. But Esme's blue irises are sparkling, and the way that the corners of her lips tug upward is enough to alleviate all of Lorna's self-doubts. Then when Esme's mouth finally breaks out into broad grin, Lorna eagerly smiles back at her, while Dawn is busy making gurgling noises, and they look so much like an actual family that it _hurts_.

Esme's hand moves away from Dawn, the pads of her fingers trailing feather-light touches along Lorna's forearm. The two young women gaze into each other's eyes, captivated by one another in such a manner that seems difficult to rationalize as being merely  _platonic_. There is simply nothing _chaste_ or _innocent_ about any of this— both of those adjectives cannot be used to describe the people that Lorna and Esme have long since become.

Then Lorna's pulse speeds up, because Esme is standing just so close that it overloads every single one of her senses. Goosebumps erupt across Lorna's skin, warm tingling sensations developing throughout all the places where Esme's fingertips brush along her arm. With the distance between them being only a couple of inches, Lorna can smell Esme's expensive perfume, and she starts to imagine how _good_ it would feel to press her body against the blonde's bare, soft skin and—

A high-pitched wail interrupts Lorna's lewd musings, and when Esme's hand pull away from her, she already misses its touch. But Dawn is crying, and her little beady eyes staring up at Lorna with such a forlorn expression. She must be hungry, it has been a few hours since Lorna last breastfed her, and the thought of doing this in front of Esme doesn't seem as awkward as it should.

"Well, I guess that's Dawn's way of telling us she's hungry." Lorna lets out wry chuckle.

"Y-Yeah, and I should— I should be going now." Esme sputters, a blush coloring her cheeks.

Dropping to the floor, Esme crouches onto the floor to pick up the scattered screws lying around nearby. Lorna's eyes roam across the other girl's long, well-defined legs— because kneeling down when wearing a skirt _that_ short should be illegal, "Reeva still needs to debrief me..." The blonde seems anxious for reasons that Lorna can't quite discern, "A-About our last assignment."

Esme's last assignment— a mission which had involved eliminating some loose ends. Lorna isn't naive or ignorant, but she also doesn't want to hear about all the people who were killed in order to keep the birth of her child a secret, especially when that list just continues to expand. _The end justifies the means_. Although Lorna tolerates the Inner Circle's moral ambiguity, she refuses to act as if these Machiavellian beliefs are anything other than barbaric.

"Then let's not keep Reeva waiting..." With a snap of Lorna's fingers, the bolts, the screws, the steel bars, and every other discarded component belonging to Dawn's crib is lifted off from the ground. Lorna waves her hand, and then all these pieces of metal are flung toward the opened toolbox resting on the floor. Green wisps of energy waft through the air. Lorna manipulates the items into organizing themselves inside the case, and as the lid falls down, she says, "...and voilà!"

Using one arm to cradle Dawn, a glint of playfulness twinkles across Lorna's eyes. Verisdecent sparks swirl all around her as she makes that infuriatingly attractive smirk. Lorna has never looked _more_ stunning. And at this very instant, Esme would have probably fallen in love with Lorna— if she weren't so deeply in love with her already.

"That's a neat trick." Esme doesn't know if she is referring to Lorna's telekinetic control over metal objects, _or_ to the way that the green-haired girl's smile can make her heart flutter.

"It's the least I can do to thank you." Lorna shrugs, and her voice is laced with a gentleness that Esme can't ignore.

"No need to thank me." Esme ducks down and picks up the toolbox, "But I do have to go now." Standing back upright, she gives Lorna an apologetic smile, "Reeva doesn't like to be kept waiting."

Thoroughly unimpressed by Lorna's attempts at flirting with the blonde, Dawn cries out, squirming against her mother's arms. Because she is _still_ hungry, and all these subtle romantic interactions are of little interest to an impatient newborn who craves nutritional sustenance. Yanking on a long, stray curl of green hair, Dawn manages to draw Lorna's attention.

"And apparently, neither does _Dawn_." Lorna quips, and earns herself one of Esme's genuine smiles.

"Right, then." Esme nods, her fingers clutching onto the toolbox handle, "I'll leave you to it."

Even though Esme is still smiling when she spins around, the blonde's fingers are clutching onto the toolbox handle so tightly that her knuckles have begun to turn white. And as Esme saunters through the doorway, her high-heeled shoes clinking against the linoleum surface of the floor, a strange, morose feeling cripples Lorna's heart.

Although Lorna doesn't know why it feels distressing to watch Esme disappear into the adjacent corridor, the bedroom seems so much emptier now that she is gone. A surge of an all too familiar sadness pushes against Lorna's chest— this suffocating sort of odd sensation —because deep down, she can't help but wonder if an opportunity has just passed her by.

* * *

Hidden at the center of the facility, the main conference room appears as if it were enormous— four, solid walls stretching across a long distance of confined space. Surrounded by several office chairs, a narrow mahogany table has been positioned in the middle of the wide chamber. There is a matching wooden bookcase near the twin steel doors, shelves brimming with pretentious novels and informative texts, creating the idealistic illusion that the members of the Inner Circle are well-read, knowledgeable individuals.

An assemblage of tiny light fixtures have been arranged alongside the borders of the ceiling, designed to illuminate this dark, windowless compartment. Hanging from high above, these small fluorescent bulbs are dim, adjusted to radiate a very low cadence of luminosity, and therefore, they can only cast a subtle white glow over the textile floor. Amidst the ashen monotony, a single oil painting decorates the grey walls— _The Pink Peach Tree_ by Vincent van Gogh.

Perched the end of table, Reeva Payge is leaning against a tall, black leather chair. Clad in a high-priced, cashmere dress, her ebony tresses are slicked-back, molded into a regal, sophisticated haircut. Seated in the center of the room, the dark-haired woman acts as though she were some majestic queen, sitting comfortably on her tyrannical throne. For the last few hours, Reeva has been cautiously skimming through documents and blueprints, analyzing the steady progression of her grand schemes.

An ominous sensation saturates the air as Reeva's fingers drum against the polished surface of a table. She stares at the files, meticulously searching for some anomaly— for _something_ that might be an unwelcomed hindrance to her plans. But all the figures are bearing favorable results, and none of the reported numerical data seems to possess any outlying issues. Reeva smiles, because thus far, everything is within her control.

Four soft knocks disrupt Reeva's internal musings, and without waiting for an answer, a set of identical young women saunter into the conference room. Wearing matching outfits, a pleated navy skirt and a light blue blouse— the Frost siblings have arrived. From the sound of the high-heeled shoes clinking against the linoleum floor, to the way that their golden curls bounce as they walk, every movement is perfectly synchronized.

 _Sophie_. With both hands folded in front of her, Sophie meekly smiles at Reeva. She usually seems anxious and restless, a peculiar trait that differentiates her from the other, less neurotic Frost siblings. _Phoebe_. Flashing a playful smirk, Phoebe's arms are crossed against her chest. This young woman always looks as though she feels bored and disinterested, a sharp contrast to Esme, who never fails to give Reeva her undivided attention— _But wait, where is Esme?_

An unrecognizable emotion flashes across Reeva's face when she suddenly notices that only Sophie and Phoebe have strolled in through the double doors. _Esme is missing_. And as the two golden-haired girls approach Reeva, the older woman stands up abruptly. Her eyes narrowing down, she speaks to them using a seemingly nonchalant tone, "Where is Esme?"

Turning to face each other, the sisters exchange nervous smiles. For a brief moment, a glimmer of blue light flickers along their irises. _I'm almost there_. Esme's reply is clipped and evasive. With a subtle nod, Sophie and Phoebe look back at Reeva before speaking in unison, "She is running a bit late."

"That doesn't answer my question at all." Reeva quips, "So I'll rephrase it." Her voice becomes low and dangerous, "Is she _with_ Lorna?"

This is a difficult question to answer, because Esme was _with_ Lorna, but just not in the way that she wanted to be. Sophie looks toward Phoebe, her irises lighting up, and in just a couple of seconds, the two young women have coordinated a believable explanation. Reeva won't appreciate the honest truth, so Sophie and Phoebe are forced to do what they do best— _lie_.

"Yes, of course." Sophie chirps.

"Because manipulating Lorna requires a softer touch." Phoebe adds.

"You see, her mind is stronger than most—"

"Because of the blood that's coursing through her veins." Phoebe interjects, "Like father, like daughter."

"Right." Sophie reaffirms, "Lorna is Erik Lehnsherr's daughter, _Magneto_ , one of the greatest mutants to have ever lived— She isn't just some weak-minded human. Esme needs to earn Lorna's trust, in a strictly _organic_ fashion."

"Using telepathic mind-control can only get you from point A to point B." Phoebe elaborates, combining her explanation with a set of hand gestures that she deems appropriate, "But if you befriend someone, you can instill them with _genuine_ loyalty."

"Exactly." Sophie nods in agreement.

"Hm..." Reeva hums, "So, let me see if I got this straight—" It takes most of Phoebe's willpower to stop herself from laughing at Reeva's poor choice of words, "Esme is manipulating Lorna? That's all this is?"

"The type of manipulation that Lorna requires is a bit more delicate, and Esme is thoroughly committed to this plan." Sophie seems to be believing her own fallacies, "We can assure you, Esme only has the Inner Circle's best interests at heart."

"So she isn't growing _attached_ to Lorna?" Reeva quirks up an eyebrow.

Understatement of the year, because Esme blew right past 'attached' and is already completely in love with Lorna. "No, not at all." Phoebe shakes her head from side to side, overemphasizing the lies.

"It is a well-fabricated ploy, but a ploy nonetheless." Sophie reassures.

Sitting back down, Reeva's face slightly softens, her lips pressing together to form an enigmatic smirk. She settles against the chair, both elbows propped on the armrests, her demeanor seems more at ease. Sophie and Phoebe glance subtly at each other, unable to read the older woman's mind without arousing her suspicions.

"Well..." Reeva drawls out the single-syllable word, "I guess all we can do now is wait and see."

An uncomfortable tension hangs in the aftermath of Reeva's reply. Sophie and Phoebe struggle to appear calm and poised. Because there is a nonverbal agreement amongst members of the Inner Circle, an unwritten rule that discourages individuals from fraternizing with one another. This antiquated code of ethics has always seemed logical; effective operatives should not be allowed to develop feelings for each other. Sentimentalities are hampering encumbrances— they result in unwanted _complications_.

Based on all the doe-eyed, heartbroken looks that Esme gives Lorna, the truth behind where the blonde's allegiances lie remains a mystery to Reeva. It is a matter of patience— of waiting until Esme's true intentions become clear, but Reeva Payge has _never_ been a patient woman, not even back in the days when her heart was still capable of feeling. Although Esme's affections toward Lorna might continue to hide under the guise of just being an intricate, manipulative rouse, Reeva needs to stop them from developing into something far more problematic.

* * *

Dawn Dane. The name printed across the birth certificate, pitch-black ink against an ivory-white parchment. With this document, she becomes an official member of society. _Dawn Dane_. Each letter written in a beautiful, cursive font. The corner of the paper is stamped by a legitimate notaries. Dawn Dane, not Dawn _Dane-Diaz_ or Dawn _Diaz-Dane_. No, she can't rely on the support of a father, and therefore, her mother's surname is going to have to be enough— because it _must_ be enough.

And that is what Lorna has been telling herself for the past two hours. She sits on top of a stool by the kitchen counter, and stares absentmindedly at Dawn's birth certificate, wondering why something feels off-kilter about this entire situation. Maybe Dawn deserves more than an emotionally volatile mother and an absentee father, but the sentimental benefits of having a family pales in comparison with the reliable sense of stability that the Inner Circle provides.

Aside from an abundance of resources and supplies, Reeva offers the promise of a better future for mutants. As Lorna brings a coffee mug up to her lips, she imagines a safer world where Dawn doesn't have to worry about being persecuted by cruel bigots or pragmatic segregationists. So then when Lorna takes a sip, the caffeinated beverage soothes the irritation tickling against the back of her throat, and she feels somewhat relieved.

Lorna still remains skeptical when it comes to the Inner Circle's methods of operation— mostly in regards to how witnesses and third-party accomplices are being callously murdered —but at least for now, Reeva's promise of a prosperous mutant-friendly future is enough to set her mind at ease. And when the last traces of Lorna's wayward thoughts finish disparaging, she takes another sip of her lukewarm coffee.

"Dawn needs a middle name."

Wearing a crooked smile, Andy saunters across the kitchen and hops onto a nearby stool. Without bothering to ask Lorna for permission, he reaches over and grabs Dawn's birth certificate. Blissfully unaware that Lorna is glaring at him, Andy leans toward her, placing his index finger against the blank space situated in between the names _Dawn_ and _Dane_.

"And  _Andrea_ is a really pretty name." The young man smirks, ignoring the fact that he is clearly intruding on Lorna's personal space.

"I'm sure it is—" Lorna snatches the birth certificate out of Andy's hand and shuffles her stool away from him, "But Dawn doesn't need a middle name."

"No one _needs_ a middle name, Lorna. It would just be nice for my goddaughter to have one." Andy scoffs, "And I can pitch you some more ideas, if you want me to."

"I don't want you to."

"How about Andrei?"

"I am pretty sure that's a boy name."

"How about Anderson then?"

"No."

"Lorna?"

"What?"

"No, _Lor-na_." Andy drawls out the two syllables of the young woman's name, "As in, introducing the adorable Dawn _Lorna_ Dane."

An exasperated groan leaves Lorna's lips, and although Andy's antics are annoying, she feels a twinge of affection for the boy who so freely calls himself Dawn's godfather— who calls himself her family. Because being here, surrounded by all the enigmatic members of the Inner Circle, both Lorna and Dawn need a friend like Andy, _someone_ who is inarguably on their side.

"You're incorrigible." And despite the negative connotation of this statement, Lorna smiles at Andy with genuine fondness.

"Thank you!" Andy chirps cheerfully, misconstruing Lorna's words as a compliment, "But all kidding aside—" He pulls out a pen from the back pocket of his loose-fitting pants, "You should write something down. I'm sure that it can be _officialized_ later."

With a click, Andy hands over the ballpoint pen to Lorna, and due to some ingrained, subconscious reflex that compels a person to accept items, she reaches out for it. Lorna doesn't think that Dawn's birth certificate should be altered— she doesn't even think that 'officialized' is an actual word —but in order to end this pointless conversation, she will gladly adhere to Andy's request.

Because nighttime is steadily approaching, and although Dawn has been sleeping soundly in Esme's state of the art, Lorna-proof crib for the last few hours, that seems highly susceptible to change. So Lorna stifles a yawn as her fingers coil around the pen, and pressing its tip against the sheet of paper, she scribbles out the first name that comes to mind.

"Esmeralda?" Andy reads the name aloud, with a tone of disbelief, and Lorna begins to feel self-conscious about her choice.

" _Esmeralda_. Like you said, it translates to 'emerald' in Spanish." Lorna explains, "And since my hair is green, and Marcos is Colombian—"

"Oh right!" Andy grins, eyes crinkling at the corners, "So this name can represents all of Dawn's parents. That's brilliant, Lorna!"

"Yea-Yeah." Lorna returns the smile, but her heart starts pounding for some reason.

 _All of Dawn's parents_. Something about this phrase seems odd. It would make more sense to say, 'both of Dawn's parents' or 'both you and Marcos'. Dawn Esmeralda Dane, the name displayed across the birth certificate. Now there is an indistinguishable churning in the young woman's stomach, and she can't stop dwelling on subtle differences between these terms. And so Lorna decides to do what she does best— she tries to rationalize her decision.

Esmeralda, translated to emerald, in reference the bright, green shade of Lorna's hair. _Es-me-ral-da_. A Spanish word, connecting Dawn to a wonderful Hispanic heritage that maybe one day, she will be able to learn about. _Esmeralda_. Laced with tiny pieces of Lorna and Marcos, a keepsake for their daughter to treasure. It sounds so beautiful— Dawn Esmeralda Dane. And if Lorna tries hard enough, then perhaps she can convince herself that this particular name doesn't mean anything else.


End file.
